A Move Too Far
by meganface
Summary: Mickey likes his life now, the simplicity of it all, the genuine enjoyment he gets from it. And then it all changes, becoming worse and so much better at the same time. Slight AU and quite a slow build Ian/Mickey. R&R.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so first of all I guess this can be classed as an au because everything that happened on the show between Mickey and Ian hasn't happened; they know of each other and that's that. Also this is set about six years in the future (and I'm kind of guessing ages) so Mickey and Lip are 23, Ian and Mandy are 22, Fiona is 28, Debbie is 18, Carl is 16, Liam is 9. So yeah, I appreciate this story is maybe a little out there, I don't know, but it'd be great if you gave it a chance :)  
Also, I am as English as they come and though I love New York a lot, I don't know a great deal about it specifically. It shouldn't be too big a problem but sorry in advance for any and all inaccuracies.**

* * *

It's a Thursday evening and Mickey hasn't got work. He's spent the day doing absolutely nothing but watch awful television and eat Snickers bars on the brown leather couch, wrapped up in the blanket they keep on the back of it. If it was Dylan doing this, Mickey would have ripped the shit out of him for acting like a little bitch on the rag, but he doesn't care. New York winters are fucking brutal, somehow worse than Chicago's, and Mickey's getting over a chest infection so fuck it. Besides Mandy's going to be Skype calling him in a minute like she does every Thursday since she had fucking bullied and guilt tripped him into making an account.

As much as he pretends that it annoys him, Mickey loves seeing Mandy's face. Even if it is through a computer screen. She hasn't really changed that much, not to Mickey, though she now keeps her dark hair a little shorter and straighter. It makes him kind of uneasy - she looks even prettier than before and though she and Ian are still going strong, her exact words, he still feels like he should remind every guy in his old neighbourhood of what he'll do to them if they fuck around with her. Distance and time hasn't changed that.

He accepts the Skype call as soon as it starts, sitting up on the couch and unravelling the blanket a little, and is greeted by Mandy wearing these ridiculous reindeer ears made of bright pink tinsel.

He sighs at her grinning face and wonders whether he should ask. He does. "The fuck are you wearing?"

Mandy bites her lip and her smile widens. "Fuck you, I'm getting into the Christmas spirit. Only ten more days!" she exclaims, moving the laptop around to show Mickey the Christmas tree she and Ian set up. It's in one corner of their, actually pretty nice, apartment and is decorated messily. The contrast between it and the pale blue walls is horrible, but Mickey keeps his mouth shut. When she puts the laptop back on her lap, she is smiling less maniacally. "So, how've you been? Got a boyfriend yet?"

And this is why he knew getting a Skype account was a fucking mistake. Not only is it another way to get pestered but it's a way to get pestered with Mandy's sly, knowing smirks that are so damn slap worthy it isn't even funny. Plus, this is the third time in a row that Mandy has asked him that over Skype. "No," he snaps because he doesn't fucking do boyfriends! And Mandy knows that.

"Hm, I was hoping to meet one when I come up to visit." She actually sounds genuinely sad and Mickey can't comprehend that so he doesn't even try.

Shrugging, he says, "not really my fuckin' problem," and then takes a bite out of his fourth Snickers bar.

Mandy scoffs loudly and rolls her eyes. "Um, yeah it is actually because you can't seem to keep your fuckin' legs closed. Hussy"

It's sort of funny in a really weird, kind of awkward way that it's now Mandy who's complaining to Mickey about his "sluttiness". Mickey isn't a slut or a hussy but he wouldn't give a shit if he was so he simply shrugs, gives her the finger and eats some more chocolate. After he swallows he clears his throat and asks, "how's the job goin'?" because he feels it to be necessary.

Whilst taking off those idiot reindeer ears, Mandy shrugs with a little smile. "Fine, it's fine. My bitch of a boss still gives me the fucking stink eye every two seconds but it's only because my hairdressing skills are way better than her dumbass daughter's, so whatver," she says in one breath. "You?"

"Yeah, it's fine, minus the amount of times I've had my fuckin' ass groped by desperate middle-aged women," he says, voice going from calm to aggravated growl in a matter of seconds. Mickey doesn't approve of being objectified by anyone without a dick and even then he doesn't particularly love it.

Mandy snickers with a wicked but nasty smile and raises her eyebrows. "But middle-aged men would be fine, right?" He glares at her wide smile. "Come on, I'm kidding, Mickey, lighten up. Or actually light up, whatever," she says, then mumbles, "you could fuckin' use it", just loud enough for Mickey to hear.

Before he can get his response out, Mandy swings her head around just as Mickey hears the faint sound of a door closing - Ian's home - and then she's putting the laptop on the coffee table so that Mickey has a perfect view of Mandy being lifted by Ian and her wrapping her legs around his waist like they're in the goddamn Notebook, and Mickey closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose because fucking Zoe needs to stop forcing him to watch all these fucking films!

"Are you dying over there or something?"

Mickey startles and opens his eyes to see Mandy back on the couch with Ian halfway in the shot fiddling with his phone. "Yeah, and instead of callin' 911 I'm on fuckin' Skype," he deadpans getting an amused snort from Ian.

Mandy sends them both evil looks and then nudges Ian in the ribs. "Hey Mickey, how's it going?" He doesn't sound bored or like he's being made to ask even though he is and Mickey smirks because Mandy can wrap just about any guy around her little finger.

"Not too bad, man, you?" is Mickey's answer; the answer he gives every Thursday when Ian asks him that same question. If you don't count the first time when Mickey had simply said "fine". Mandy sent him ten texts a day for a week just to annoy him before he finally caved and promised to give a friendlier response.

Ian gives his usual answer of, "good, and I can't really complain", before he smiles politely and excuses himself.

**#**

Mickey only just dodges the t-shirt that Mandy aims at his head. "Fuck, Mandy, calm down! Jesus! Why the _fuck_ is this so important? And why the _fuck_ do I need to be there?" There's an ache just beginning to throb behind his left eye and Mandy's yelling is only spurring on the inevitable headache.

"Because, jackass, I want you there, I asked you and you said yes!"

As he flops back down onto his bed, Mickey brings an arm up to cover his eyes. "Yeah and how fuckin' high was I when I said that?" he scoffs earning a hard punch right in the centre of his stomach that hurts like a motherfucker. He isn't even surprised Mandy hit him so all he does is groan and call her a bitch before kicking at her shin. "Christ," he grunts, "Ian know you like to beat on guys?"

All Mandy does in reply is sigh and sit down on the bed by his thighs. "Mickey," she pleads, and no way is Mickey going to look at her because he can say no to that voice but not to the face that always accompanies it. "Mickey please, this is important to me." She begins to lightly tug at the arm Mickey still has over his eyes. "I'll make pancakes and waffles for dinner for the next week," she bargains, sounding much less like a little girl asking for a puppy and more like a woman doing buisness. The change in tactic makes Mickey bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking.

"Two weeks."

Mandy growls a little. "Ten days."

Mickey removes his arm and looks up at her. "Fine. But I ain't changin' and I'm not gonna fucking dust." Just as Mandy begins to protest, Mickey starts up again. "No. They are Gallaghers - like they can judge us anyways."

"Okay," Mandy stands and straightens out her dark purple skirt, "but at least wash your face and put on some deodorant. Hobo." She walks out of his room and Mickey waits about ten seconds before he gives up and goes to the bathroom to splash his face and spray himself with deodorant like he's getting paid for it.

It's not that Mickey doesn't give a shit about meeting Ian - okay, he really doesn't - but he's the met the guy before and he's met most of the Gallaghers. Hell, he and Lip even talk some when they see each other on the streets. So what he doesn't get is why Mandy's acting like the fucking queen of England is coming for tea instead of the Gallaghers - just as well-known for the wrong reasons as the Milkovichs - coming round to eat pizza and drink beer. Then again Mandy's never had an actual boyfriend and apparently that shit is important to nineteen year old girls so whatever. Mickey likes beer and he likes pizza and he wants those pancakes and waffles so he'll deal.

...

An hour later and Mickey's hiding out in the kitchen, a beer in one hand and a slice of Margherita pizza in the other, wondering why he's being made to endure such hell. Really, it's the first and probably only time in his life that Mickey wishes his sister hated him like she hated their brothers because then he'd have been paid $30 to stay away from the house for the day. And seriously, he'd rather be fucking anywhere else. It's the noise, he thinks, that's unsettling him the most; the sound of a family laughing, joking, actually enjoying each others' company. Something deep stirs inside of him and seeing how easily Mandy fits in with it all only serves to worsen his unease because she's good, yeah a little slutty, rough around the edges, but she _is_ good and she doesn't deserve the life they have. And Mickey really needs to stop with this sentimental bullshit before he gets his fucking period or something. Christ.

Lip wanders in a couple of minutes later and Mickey's now finished both his beer and his pizza and so stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets, his posture defensive for no real reason. Lip smirks at him before getting two beers out of the fridge, passing one to Mickey who takes it without a word. It takes a couple of seconds for Mickey to realise that Lip is just as casually dressed as him in jeans and a grey wife beater. Mickey thinks he's probably just as enthusiastic about all of this as he is.

"And there I was thinking nothing could scare a Milkovich," Lip says randomly, his voice light; teasing Mickey only because he knows he won't start anything now. Fucker.

"Yeah, it's the fuckin' three year old that really does it," he replies, voice devoid of any emotion.

"Six, actually."

Mentally, he curses Mandy for buying fucking light beer - the fuck is up with that? Right now, even just a slight buzz would make so much difference; allow him to concentrate on something other than the happiness that's being radiated in his own living room. A grimace forms on his face after he takes a swig of his beer, shaking his head. He hates today.

"I think you're wanted, man," Lip says. Mickey looks at him, one eyebrow raised in silent question. "Mandy's giving me a pretty lethal death glare and mouthing 'Mickey'," he explains with a smirk.

Grumbling every curse he knows under his breath, Mickey follows Lip back to the chaos: Mandy, Ian, Fiona and her guy are sat on the couch talking loudly and animatedly, huge smiles on their faces; the girl - Debbie? he thinks it's Debbie - is sat on the floor with the youngest, arguing with the older one, who's a total thug in the making, whilst absent-mindedly tickling the other. Mickey honestly doesn't know what to do with himself so he flicks Mandy on the ear and asks her what she wants.

The look she gives him is half unimpressed and half annoyed. "To stop being an anti-social asshole," she whispers through gritted teeth before going back to her conversation.

So what? Mickey's supposed to just stand here like an absolute dick? How that's better than being anti-social he has no clue. But then Lip moves to the other arm of the couch and so Mickey sits on the one beside Mandy, attempting to distract himself from the glare he's getting off of the smallest child. And come one, how is that kid six? He's fucking tiny! Better yet, how is he Frank's child? Not only is Frank white but he's fucking Irish. He shakes his head.

...

It's midnight when the Gallagher clan finally make to leave and Mickey's making a sandwich in the kitchen when Ian walks in.

"Hey. I just - I wanted to let you know that I'm not like the other guys Mandy's been with. Y'know? I'm not just gonna use her and leave her or whatever it is tha-"

Mickey holds up a hand to silence him then turns around, leaning back casually on the counter. His arms are crossed over his chest and he knows he looks intimidating and that's exactly what he wants. "Save it. Just remember that if you ever do anything to hurt her, I'll break you in places you never even knew could be broken." And with that he turns back around.

**#**

Friday nights are a bitch to work. All of the young office yuppies and their grey-haired bosses ordering cocktails and shots like that'll make them hate their jobs any less. It's dumb but Mickey keeps his mouth shut and behaves as politely as he can - really, it's not very polite - to not get his ass fired.

Both Dylan and Zoe are working tonight so that's alright, he thinks, they make this bearable. Plus he won't have to walk home on his own if he doesn't hook up with someone. Mickey thinks he probably won't, he's not really in the mood. And that sudden realisation has Mickey freezing because when is he not in the mood to fuck? Though he's twenty-three he has the sex-drive of a sixteen year old.

"Yo! You gon' serve me?"

Mickey turns from where he was stood and suddenly he's in the mood again. If you ask Mickey, he doesn't have a type. Zoe disagrees though. Apparently he always gets with guys who are no more than a few inches taller than him, muscular but in that lean, subtle way and not stereotypically "gay". Whatever. Mickey fucks who he fucks.

As Mickey walks over to the bar he smirks smugly at the obvious once over the guy gives him. He knows he looks good and that isn't simple conceitedness but based on the leers and the amount of people who come on to him every night he's working. Also according to Zoe, the black slacks he wears "accentuate his ass" and the way he rolls up the sleeves of his black shirt make his biceps "look delicious". So.

"What can I get you, man?" he asks, as casual as he can.

The guy smiles knowingly then runs a hand through his light brown hair, as though he's nervous. Mickey shouldn't find that endearing. "A vodka and coke."

Mickey nods, takes the money then makes the drink, all the while sensing the guy's eyes on him. Sure enough when he turns back and slides the drink to him, the guy is failing to subtly check him out.

There's some up and coming DJ playing at the club and so the bar itself isn't really busy at all, and only the yuppies and people who came to simply drink are sat at the there, so Mickey starts to absent-mindedly wipe down the surface with a dark red rag.

He's scrubbing at a sticky patch he really hopes is just alcohol when someone clears their throat. Mickey looks up to see the same guy smiling shyly at him. After a couple of seconds, it becomes clear that he isn't going to speak first so Mickey rolls his eyes and asks, "what?"

"Uh... can I get another?" He raises his empty glass and Mickey takes it and the notes he hands over. Their fingers brush and the guy actually blushes a little. Christ, he's has gone from loud New-Yorker to shy teenage girl in about five minutes. Mickey shouldn't like it as much as he does but he's always liked guys who allow him to control the situation. It's safe that way.

"So, when does your shift end?" The guy asks whilst he pours in the vodka.

"In..." he cranes his neck back to look at the large analogue clock above the bar, "an hour."

The glass is now on the bartop and the guy takes a little sip of if, his wide eyes darting around as he nods. "Will you, like - are you busy? After, I mean." One of his hands runs through his hair again and he smiles like he's hating the way he worded his question.

Mickey smirks. "No," he answers. "Why?" He knows exactly why but he can't help but enjoy the way this guy is the actual physical definition of awkward and shy.

"Just wondering, y'know, if uh, maybe you wanna get a drink after? Or whatever."

Just down the bar a scantily dressed blonde is trying to get his attention but he doesn't want to abandon this conversation so he side-eyes Dylan and nods in her direction. Thankfully Dylan can take a hint.

"A drink?"

"Uh, yeah." Suddenly his eyes widen and he coughs awkwardly. "Ah shit, are you straight? Have I been reading this all wrong?"

Mickey shakes his head. "Relax, man. No. A drink sounds fine."

"Okay, cool. Well, I'm gonna get back to my friends and I'll see ya later?"

"Sure." The guy turns to leave but Mickey reaches over the bar and grabs his arm. "Name?" he asks, though he doesn't know why because he never usually cares. But this feels different somehow.

"Oh, uh, I'm Jake," he answers with a dimpled smile. "You?"

"Mickey."

Jake nods and then turns back around still smiling. Mickey watches him leave until he becomes just another body in the sea of moving forms on the dance floor and he realises he's been smiling the whole time yet does nothing to stop it. Maybe he's turning soft in his old age... or not because he did get into a fight only five days before. Fuck it. He's probably going to get laid tonight, that's all that really matters right now.

A pair of hands get hold of his hips from behind and he instantly knows it's Dylan. "Someone's gettin' a little somethin' somethin' tonight, huh baby?" Dylan says all breathy against his neck whilst he gently humps his crotch against Mickey's ass.

All Mickey does is roll his eyes and smirk. "Fuck off, you idiot," he says, affection clear in his voice.

"Aw baby," Dylan coos, "why you gotta be that way?" One of his hands slowly trails up to Mickey's chest and he slaps him away.

"Fuck off." Mickey turns around chuckling to see Dylan smiling goofily and putting his shoulder-length dirty blonde hair back into a little ponytail. "How people don't think you're a raging homo, I have no fuckin' clue."

The bottles behind Dylan clang together as he leans back against the counter shrugging. "Unlike you, I clearly exude manly heterosexuality," he says with a smile puffing out his unimpressive chest. And Mickey isn't even going to respond to that.

**#**

The hotel is beginning to get on Mickey's nerves. Real fucking badly. Or, well, actually it's the people that Mickey can't fucking stand. On one side of the wall he has goddamn newly weds who fuck every hour. Literally. And on the other side there's a family of about ten with the kids screaming and crying and just generally acting like the inconsiderate assholes they are all the damn time. Mickey would probably feel a slight bit of sympathy for the parents if they didn't scream just as loud. One week he's been New York and he feels like he's still at home. Fuck.

It's nine at night and the newly weds have been going at it for an hour and he can't take it anymore so he pulls on a pair of black jeans over his boxer-briefs and puts his parka over his faded Pink Floyd t-shirt. He probably looks awful and mismatched but he doesn't give a shit. He needs to leave.

After a ten minute walk he finds a bar that reminds him a little of The Alibi back in South Side; small and situated between two blocks of apartments atop liquor and convenience stores. He chews on his thumbnail for a little while. Indecision is setting in. Though the main point of moving was to get away from Chicago and that life, he wants to hold on to certain things and this bar feels familiar but different enough.

When he walks in a tall, built man nods at him whilst he pulls a pint of beer. Mickey makes his way to the bar and drops down onto one of the wooden stalls cushioned with black. The place is a little classier than The Alibi: the walls are nicely painted, no cracks in the paint or questionable stains, and there are black and white pictures of famous New Yorkers and New York landscapes. The bartop is actually clean and so are the several tables that are dotted around. Mickey allows himself to relax a little knowing he hasn't walked into someplace shady.

"What can I get ya?" the barkeeper asks him with a friendly smile that Mickey doesn't think is fake and a Southern drawl that surprises him.

"Just a beer."

"Bud?"

Mickey nods. When it comes to alcohol he's not all that fussy. Especially when he doesn't get ID'd, even though he's twenty-one.

"Not from 'round here, huh?"

Mickey looks up at the man, taking in his smile lines and bright, happy blue eyes. "No, I ain't," he answers, looking down and rubbing his thumb against his bottom lip.

The man huffs a short laugh and hands over the beer saying, "me neither" and waves his hand when Mickey goes to pass over his money. "On the house for newcomers."

"Well hey, Paul!" someone yells from across the room. Mickey looks to see a guy his age looking genuinely surprised. "How come the same didn't apply to me the first time I came in here?" Nobody else seems to be acknowledging any of this and it makes Mickey think they must be used to the mouth on this guy.

"Because, dipshit, your father is my best friend and I know how much damn money he has and second of all, when I said "newcomers" I meant people who ain't from New York," he explains with an impressive eye roll before walking to the other end of the bar.

Mickey takes a long sip of his beer and then lights up a cigarette. Some of the tension he's been carrying eases away and he sighs long and hard.

...

His beer is halfway gone when the stool beside him is sat on. Despite the bar being almost fucking empty.

"If you're not from here then where are you from?" It's the guy from earlier that night, the loudmouth, and Mickey wants to tell him to fuck off but he told himself before he moved that he wouldn't have to behave like an idiot thug. Nobody would know who he was and so he would have nobody's expectations to live up to.

"Chicago," he answers before taking another drag of his cigarette.

The guy nods enthusiastically, his shoulder-length hair falling into his face, and when he pushes it back Mickey tracks the movement. "Cool. I'm not really from around here, I was born in Dallas, but we moved when I was ten so." And now he knows, Mickey can pick out the slight Texan drawl he has mixed in with his New York accent. "I'm Dylan, by the way." He turns on the stool so that one of his knees brushes Mickey's thigh and holds out a hand.

Now Mickey can see him properly, he notices that Dylan's wearing ripped jeans, dirty boots and a plaid shirt over a tatty grey tee. Though he looks kind of homeless, it's obviously been done on purpose; it's probably his style or some shit. Mickey eyes his hand dubiously before taking it quickly when Dylan starts to wriggle his fingers in impatience. "Mickey," he says, his voice croaky from the cigarettes.

They have a couple of drinks and Mickey learns that Dylan's family are so rich because his dad spent years promoting and opening a line of clubs called Synergy all across America practically on his fucking own, that he gags every time he takes a drink of his beer - "fuck off, dude, spirits are my thing" - and that he'll flirt with absolutely anyone, despite claiming to be straight - including Paul who is in his mid-fifties and _his dad's best friend!. _Mickey kind of assumes that that's just the kind of guy he is; he has a 'fuck you' attitude but in a totally different way to Mickey because Dylan genuinely doesn't give a shit about what others think of him and Mickey really does, even if the person he's been all these years isn't who he truly is.

...

By the time midnight rolls around, they're both pretty hammered and Dylan is telling Mickey about some girl he loved who cheated on him with his cousin or his brother or... some other male family member. Mickey's drunk and not really absorbing anything he's being told.

"Bu' dude... like, like, she was - y'know Marilyn Monroe and Beyonce? She'd, she'd be like, dude y'know, she'd be the baby they have if they met - meet. I dunno." Dylan puts his arm around Mickey's shoulder and it's truly a testament to how comfortable Mickey feels around the guy that he doesn't push him off because even when drunk he wouldn't let this happen. "Perfection, is what, what she - God, so fuckin' perfect."

Mickey snorts loudly and looks at a blurry Dylan. "Perfect and slutty," he slurs with raised eyebrows.

Dylan laughs and then sighs sadly. "Yeah," he murmurs, looking like his mind is distant and far away.

"Lucky for me, I ain't gotta worry about no girls ever." And if Mickey were even slightly sober he probably wouldn't be coming out to someone he met only a few hours ago.

But Dylan doesn't even flinch or react at all. "Hmm, yeah. Bein' gay looks fuckin' awesome - is it awesome?"

"No," Mickey answers instantly, fiddling with his empty shot glass. "Sex is though," he adds a few seconds later. And that makes Dylan laugh loud and obnoxious, his shaking shoulders jostling Mickey's until Mickey can't help but laugh and laugh until tears are falling from his eyes; of joy and relief, but in this moment he doesn't even know.

**#**

"I don't usually - fuck - do this," Jake pants.

Mickey has his mouth attached to Jake's neck, every suck and bite getting a quiet moan from him. "What?" He pulls back and stares openly at Jake's eyes. They're this seriously fucking gorgeous light hazel, kind of yellow, colour and his pupils are blown wide. "Fuck?"

"No, fuck you," he chuckles, fiddling with Mickey's belt. "I meant, y'know, I don't really have random hook ups with guys I don't really know."

Mickey nods and he isn't even annoyed. This should worry him and in retrospect he probably shouldn't have agreed to a drink because he knew this was going to happen. And yet here he is. The thing is this guy is actually real fucking cool, interesting even. Mickey had taken him to Paul's bar with Dylan after work, Dylan only there to do something with Paul, and they stayed doing more talking than drinking. Jake is a twenty-one year old student, studying to become an architect with an alcoholic mom, dad who never gets enough credit and twin sisters who still baby him. Mickey told him the short story about his parents, nobody really wants to know about all of that depressing shit, and focussed more on Mandy and his dumbass brothers.

So Mickey knows that this isn't like his usual quick, anonymous hook ups and he kind of doesn't want it to be. Well fuck, maybe Mandy will have a boyfriend to meet. "So, you don't want it to be random or what?"

Jake smiles shyly and looks down. "Not really, no. I, uh, kinda like you, I guess."

* * *

**Alrighty, so I understand that this chapter has no Ian/Mickey elements and is perhaps a little confusing? But I really wanted to write a non-linear story that has Mickey with a new life in the future and to be able to highlight how he's changed since. Also, as I said, this is a non-linear story and though I think I make it kinda obvious and you're all smart enough to make sense of it, please ask if you're confused about any of it. There are quite a few OCs and I hope they grow on you and now I'm rambling so I'll stop. (But college is kind of repeatedly sucker punching me with work and so I probably won't be updating a whole lot, but I'll try my best!) Read and review :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter turned out slightly more intense than originally intended so sorry? Or not, I don't know. (I'm basically using the character of Zoe to voice my own opinions in the first bit. Oops.)**

* * *

Monogamy has always puzzled Mickey. Like, why would you want to stay with one person until the day you die? He remembers being back in South Side and hearing that a cousin of his was getting married at twenty and thinking how fucking weird it must be getting married but still being too young to legally drink at your own reception. And seriously, how can you know at twenty that in thirty years you'll still want to be with the same person? Hell, even now Mickey can wake up and spend half an hour trying to choose what breakfast cereal to have.

The point is, up until now, Mickey has never seen the point in only fucking one person or hanging out with one person in a more than platonic way. It's not as though he hasn't done it before. Well. Sort of. Three months after he first moved to Chicago he got with this guy Andrew and they were kind of a little more than just fuck buddies. But then Mickey hooked up with some hot little twink and Andrew lost his shit over it, so that was that. Mickey didn't care, not really. He was still in that inbetween stage of thuggish bastard and semi-decent human being.

But now he's doing the whole 'morning after walk of shame' and wondering if he's just cheated on Jake or not. It's been just over a week since they first met and they've met up at Paul's bar only two more times. So they aren't exactly dating - and Mickey really fucking hates that term - and they aren't boyfriends - again, Mickey hates that term - but he's literally the only guy Mickey has met up with more than once and not fucked. Therefore, he's slowly coming to the realisation that though getting fucked by that guy last night may not have been cheating, it probably wasn't a decent thing to do. And Mickey likes to think of himself as a decent guy. At least he thinks he is now. So he's sort of really fucking confused about what he's supposed to do now. Maybe Dylan will have some idea because God knows he's been with more than his fair share of women. If he asks Zoe she'll probably yell then call him a stupid prick or something.

The apartment, when he finally arrives, isn't empty. Much to Mickey's annoyance.

"Well, well, well," Dylan says with a smirk, swaggering up to Mickey from the kitchen. "Who was the lucky gentleman?"

From the corner of his eye, Mickey can see Zoe giving him a calculated look. He's not ashamed to say that it kind of scares the shit out of him. "Doesn't fuckin' matter," he mutters. He brushes past Dylan and heads to the kitchen. God, he's craving a cup of coffee.

Dylan, seemingly now uninterested, grabs his plate from the marble breakfast counter and leaves for his bedroom, leaving Mickey on his own to face the wrath of Zoe. Bastard.

"I'll take a wild guess and assume that whoever you hooked up with last night wasn't your boyfriend-"

"Not my-"

"Ah ah! I'm going to assume that it wasn't Jake, your _boyfriend_, and that it was some random man whose name you either don't remember or never knew." She raises her perfectly shaped brows. "Please, correct me if I'm wrong." There's an edge to her voice now and Mickey grits his teeth to stop from lashing out at her. It's never a good idea to get in a shouting match with Zoe. You will never, ever win.

"Yeah, I'm a fuckin' asshole." Mickey says it like an obediant child only saying something to get out of trouble. Mildly pathetic is what it is, but whatever. He looks over at her where she's leaning against the back of the couch, directly in his line of sight. That silent, judgemental stare is what makes him say, "if you're gonna beat my ass over this just fuckin' do it already."

Instead of screaming at him, Zoe simply removes her grey hoody and walks over to him. God. She's going to want to _talk_ about it. Mickey'd prefer her to shout. She takes two rainbow coloured mugs from the mug rack by the sink. They both have Mickey's name on - Dylan isn't as funny as he thinks. She makes them both black coffees and then sits opposite Mickey at the breakfast counter, all the while Mickey distracts himself by trying to figure out what new addition Zoe got to her sleeve of tattoos. He's about eighty percent sure it's the tiny four-leafed clover by the russian dolls on her forearm - Zoe's real proud of her roots - by the time Zoe clears her throat.

"Look, I'm gonna save you some time and say I already know what I did is kinda shitty... okay?" The darkness of his coffee is an exact match to Zoe's eyes.

Zoe makes an annoyed groaning sound and plays with her nose ring. Great, so she's planning a fucking monologue to say. "Mickey, I understand that you've never really had a proper, functioning relationship, and that's nothing to be embarrassed about, just FYI, but what I don't understand is why now that you're in one, and you _are_ in one, you're doing things that you know are "shitty". You like Jake and he likes you, he does, and you have a great time together. So you haven't had sex yet. So? Sex isn't everything. And I realise that you've got it in your head that it is for gay guys or that sex is how relationships between two men are founded. But you know what? That's society talking, that's just how certain tv shows and movies and aspects of gay culture portray it. Fuck that. I know a ton a gay couples that have happy, profound, real relationships. So don't try to lie to me on this one, okay? Because your excuses are wearing thin and you and I both know the real reason you'll have sex with almost anyone who wants you."

Mickey gives her a hard, calculating look. "Oh yeah?" he says, faking interest. "What is it then? Fucking enlighten me."

"You're incredibly insecure," she states simply before taking a sip of her coffee. The whole time her eyes never leave Mickey's and no matter how damn much he wants to look away, he can't. "Nobody has ever given you any real praise, told you they were proud of you, that you were worth anything. You're parents were too busy with drugs and booze to give you attention when you craved it most. So you must not be worth it, right? And on top of that you're a gay guy and you were bought up in a world where that was one of the worst things you could be; in a world where you were worthy of a beating because of it, but not acceptance or understanding. So you got mean and you got tough and you put anything that could ever make you any more vulnerable into a box and locked it. You fought because that's what men do, right? They're big and strong and instead of showing any signs of hurt at nasty comments, they use their fists. And you, being gay, took that even further because gay guys are supposed to be camp and in touch with their feelings. They're supposed to be weaker somehow. And that further drove home your twisted ideas of self-worth and acceptance and it fueled your confusion. But it also made you think that feeling things, real emotion, makes you weak, makes you a "faggot". You had to hide such a big, and yet totally unimportant, part of yourself for so long. But, Mickey, being gay isn't a weakness, having emotions and expressing them isn't a weakness and it doesn't make you any less of anything. And sex? Sex isn't a substitute for acceptance, or the love and affection you missed out on. You _can't_ use it as a substitute. And you can't use it to make yourself feel more worthy. Because look at you: you've been here for over two years and you've been getting all this attention, you've been having sex like crazy and you still don't think you're worth a damn thing. It isn't working and it will never work. You ever heard that saying 'how can you expect someone to love you when you don't even love yourself'? Well, I don't think that applies to you, not really. I think you need to _believe_ that there are things about you, a lot of things, that are worthy of being loved before you can love yourself. And maybe that will come when you realise that there are people who love you and truly care about you. There are people who are proud to call you their friend, their brother. There are people who accept you."

Mickey can't talk. Fuck, is he even breathing? Shock spreads through him at Zoe's words. She's always been able to articulate what he's feeling but not saying. But that? That was on some fucking psychic level, as much as Mickey tells himself it's all bullshit. Zoe wanted to be a psychiatrist once; she'd have made a damn good one.

He doesn't want to be around her anymore. He wants to turn and run, but he doesn't. There's just this silence between them; silence that is so intense and alive with everything they're leaving unsaid. Mickey has nothing to hide behind and maybe that isn't too awful.

Finally, Zoe lets out a sad sigh. "I wasn't actually planning on saying so much, but you're kind of like a therapist's wet dream. And yes, I know I'm not an actual therapist but I went to most of the classes. I qualify." She feels awkward, Mickey can tell that much. The topic always gets changed when she feels awkward. "You're really not going to say anything?" she asks after another minute of silence. "Mickey."

"What?" He's still looking down, can't bear to see her face soft with sympathy.

"Was I right? I mean, I know I was, kinda. But - what I said, did it make sense? Do you get what -"

"I'm not a fuckin' retard, I know the meaning of words, Christ," he snaps, slapping his palm down onto the counter. The movement makes coffee spill from both of their mugs and the dark liquid meets, pooling together between them.

"I know that, you know I know that." Her voice breaks with barely contained patience.

Mickey knows she won't stop until he answers. "Yeah," he pinches the bridge of his nose, "I get it."

Abruptly, she stands and, taking their mugs with her, goes to the couch. "Come on," she says once she's sat down.

Mickey reluctantly follows and gracelessly plops down beside her. She's small and warm beside him; her presence, though sometimes annoying, comforts him.

**#**

Dylan and Mickey have been to Paul's bar together a few times in the last couple of weeks. The company isn't so bad and Mickey thinks maybe Dylan is a little wild but then so is he. The only difference is when Mickey gets crazy he drinks then fights rough and dirty and when Dylan does he drinks then sings karaoke all night. Often with no music playing. That particular night is one Mickey would really like to forget.

Tonight, they're sat at the bar, both in shitty old band t-shirts and jeans with holes in. Mickey thinks they probably look like a couple of bums.

Paul hands Mickey his beer then eyes him curiously. "You gonna answer me if I ask you a question?" he asks. Paul's kind of cool. He gets that Mickey isn't an open book, that if he doesn't want to talk he'll ignore you or tell you to fuck off. He never pushes Mickey to talk and he never gets annoyed at him when he doesn't. Mickey appreciates that.

"Depends. What's the question?" Mickey answers, looking down at where he's picking at the beer label.

"What is a young man like you doin' in New York all on his lonesome with nothin' to do?"

Mickey can feel Dylan squirming uncomfortably beside him and he wonders if he's thinking that Mickey's going to launch across the bar and fucking throttle Paul. He supposes that's a fair assumption judging by the way Mickey had lost it with some random friend of Dylan's just a couple of days ago who asked him one too many personal questions.

"Needed out," he finally answers with a shrug then a swig of his beer.

Paul is so still and silent that Mickey looks up at him expectant. Only he sees Paul looking at him with sadness in his eyes; pity is mingled in there and Mickey hates it, doesn't fucking need it.

But before he can voice that Paul speaks again. "Good for you, son. Seems to me like a wise choice." And then he's walking to the other side of the bar.

Nobody has ever called Mickey 'son'. Nobody. It leaves him feeling confused as hell. Suspicious too. He doesn't want to think that Paul's only being so kind to him for his own advantage, but his mind goes there simply on instinct. Now he can feel himself overloading on defensiveness. Feels real fucking sorry for the next idiot who tests him.

That idiot turns out to be some black-haired girl with a ring in one nostril and a half sleeve of tattoos down one arm. Mickey doesn't notice her walk in but he does by the time she's sneaking up behind Dylan sharing a playful smirk with Paul.

Once she drags him backwards off of the bar stool and into a headlock, Dylan's look of surprised confusion is replaced with a bright smile. "Y'know Zoe, I've been put into headlocks by a few people, but you're the only one who manages to turn me on at the same time."

The girl, Zoe, snorts unattractively and shoves him away and straightens. Her red and black plaid shirt is tight against her chest and paired with her denim shorts and black Docs she looks like the kind of girl who can hit just as hard as Mickey. There's also a pair of intricately detailed antlers tattooed on one of her thin thighs. Mickey thinks it's sort of beautiful. He's immediately annoyed by her presence.

"How long you been back, sweetheart?" Paul asks whilst making a Jack and coke.

Zoe sits down on the stool the other side of Dylan. Mickey's glad for that. "About an hour. I had to visit my mom and Zara first," she says with a roll of her eyes. "Thanks." She takes the glass from Paul but doesn't drink from it.

The silence between them all stretches long and almost unbearably awkward. Dylan huffs a breath, his shoulders hunching then falling against Mickey's; the guy has no sense of personal fucking space.

Mickey knows the introductions are coming and so it's no surprise when Dylan finally says, "so Zoe, this is my new buddy, Mickey. Mickey, this is my old buddy and soul mate, Zoe." He leans back slightly on his stool so that Zoe can reach across.

Her hand is tiny, totally out of proportion to her long legs and lanky frame. There's a small, polite smile on her pretty face. "Hey, nice to meet you."

The handshake is short and firm. "Likewise," Mickey grunts because what he really wants to say would make him seem like the dick he is.

As the three of them start up their conversation, Mickey's mind begins to drift. He picks up certain parts: Zoe's been away someplace for a month but her job is still there for her. That's actually all Mickey picks up despite how obnoxiously loud they're being. Mickey's never seen Paul behaving like this.

...

Three hours later and they're at Dylan's loft apartment along with about a dozen of Dylan's friends. Why Mickey agreed to go is beyond him, but he thinks it was probably the promise of coke. Cocaine is Mickey's thing.

As soon as a few guys sit down around the glass coffee table in the living area, Mickey nods in their direction to Dylan then joins them. All three of them have tattooed knuckles - the words not as crude as the ones on Mickey's - and the one leaning against the couch beside Mickey begins making lines of the powder with his fake ID. Mickey only knows it's fake because this guy looks no older than seventeen. And it's probably all kinds of immoral to get drugs from a minor but Mickey doesn't give a fuck.

Once the blonde-haired pretty boy sat opposite him does a line, he passes the rolled up bill to Mickey with smirk and a wink that is kind of sexy as hell. It's been about a month too long since Mickey got laid, so if this guy is up for it - he so clearly is - then Mickey thinks it's fair game in his drunken haze. Besides, this isn't South Side and Dylan knows about him, as does Zoe because she's like a goddamn mind reader or some shit, and he already saw two girls making out as soon as they got inside that earned no reactions at all. Weird shit.

The drugs do their thing fast; one second he's sat there weighing the pros and cons of fucking that guy, and the next his heart begins to beat like it's trying to burst through his ribcage and he feels like the physical embodiment of electricity. He's missed this.

There's music thumping through the apartment and Mickey can't remember when that started but he loves the feeling of the vibrations under him. Nobody is sat down besides him and the blonde who has somehow ended up straddling Mickey's lap, nibbling his earlobe. With a pleased moan, Mickey lets his head drop back to rest on the couch cushion - the leather feels cool against his heated head - presenting his neck in a clear invitation.

Blondie hums happily then licks a long, dirty line from his collarbone to his jaw. It feels like fire and it feels like ice. Mickey nearly knocks the guy out in his haste to connect their mouths. And fuck, when he does he swears he can feel everything: the music deep in his bones; the intoxicated laughter and talk surrounding him; the hands on his neck, his face, his back like they're touching his core.

Their tongues are basically fucking each others' mouths and Mickey can feel how they're both hard when they grind against each other and that's it. He grabs the guy's thighs from beneath him and pulls. He falls backwards and Mickey follows, purposefully grinding down when their crotches meet and he sinks down in the v of the guy's legs. Their lips remain attached the entire time and Mickey feels crazed with the arousal racing through him. He could end up fucking this guy right here and he wouldn't give a shit.

A loud wolf whistle pierces the air and it startles Mickey so thoroughly that his body goes rigid. His mind feels a little less like it's on overdrive and his body no longer buzzes with energy. And fuck, fucking Christ, he's practically been dry-humping with some random in front of way too many people and he needs to leave. He needs to leave and deny that this ever fucking happened because it shouldn't have. Fuck.

He scrambles off of the blonde who still looks amped up; wired. Drugs don't have the kind of prolonged effect on Mickey like they do on other people. The resistance is probably in his blood.

"Come on baby," the guy says - more like fucking _purrs_ - as he gets hold of the hem of Mickey's t-shirt and pulls him closer. "Wanna fuck you so bad."

Mickey pushes him away and he falls back on his elbows, laughter erupting from him. "Fuck off," Mickey growls as he stands. He begins to weave his way through the small crowds of people, feeling dirty just like he always did after he hooked up with a guy. Stupid of him to think the move here would change that. Always so fucking stupid.

He finds the bathroom door unlocked and hastily opens it and locks it.

"Um," someone says from behind him.

He spins around and it's Zoe. She's sat on the shiny white surface beside the sink with pink cheeks and glassy eyes. Mickey is sort of frozen to the spot staring back at her.

"Sorry, did you need to actually use the toilet?" she asks.

"No, I just..." He doesn't even know.

Zoe smiles. "Just needed to stop humping that dude out there?" It's said like a joke; Mickey really doesn't find it funny.

"Fuck you," he spits, turning to face the shower with his arms crossed over his chest.

Zoe laughs and he can feel her staring. "Defensive about his sexuality, okay. Of course there's no need to be, but he's probably never met people who are accepting of homosexuals, therefore it's understandable. Also needs drugs to let go of some inhibitions in relation to his sexuality. Huh."

Mickey is full on staring at her like the whackjob she is. Has she forgotten he's there? Is she talking to herself or can she, like, see someone else in the gleaming white bathroom? Should Mickey leave her (them?) alone?

"I studied psychology for a while and I sometimes make verbal notes," she explains with a shrug, like any of that is fucking normal.

Mickey remains mute. This whole night is getting more fucked up as it goes on and he doesn't know why he hasn't gone back to the hotel yet, but he hasn't. He's still kind of horny and he's coming down from his high and he's just so fucking fed up and exhausted. Now he's got this weird ass girl trying to fucking psychoanalyse him like she's his shrink.

She hops down from the surface and crowds right up against Mickey, her body snug against his between his parted legs. "You're far more sad than you'd like to believe, but then being sad and not angry makes you a "fairy", right? I bet daddy didn't know his son likes it up the ass." The thing is, the really fucking weird thing is that she doesn't sound nasty at all; her words lack the venom they should contain.

Even so, Mickey gets right up in her face. "You don't know a fucking thing about me," he growls through gritted teeth. He deserves a fucking gold star for not punching her square in the face. He doubts she knows how lucky she is to own a pair of tits because if she didn't her face would be looking a lot less pretty.

"Sure," she huffs, "it's not like everything is written all over you. And I at least know you're gay, so that's one thing I _do_ know about you." Her fingers lightly make their way to the nape of his neck and she smiles all sultry. It doesn't look right on her. "I bet I could ride you like I was getting paid for it and you'd barely get it up," she whispers in his ear, "but if it was Dylan-"

Mickey grabs her shoulder and slams her into the door. He has one hand fisted in her shirt and he can't remember doing that. "You shut your fucking mouth, I swear to God." He shoves her away and stalks out of the room, out of the apartment, ignoring Dylan calling his name.

**#**

By the time they've made their way through most of season two of Breaking Bad, Zoe is dead to the world. Her head is in Mickey's lap, hair splayed across it messily. He smirks down at her then picks her up bridal style and carries her into Dylan's bedroom.

As soon as she touches the bed, Dylan's arm is around her and she snuggles up to his chest. Mickey thinks it's seriously fucking ridiculous that they aren't together and after over two years of watching Dylan flirt unashamedly but with intention and Zoe riling him up on purpose, he's bored of it. But they don't listen to him so fuck it.

He snorts when Dylan kisses Zoe's temple.

"Go 'way," Dylan grumbles, "an' stop fuckin' strangers, dude." He gets more comfortable and Mickey catches his mumble of "friggin' slut."

He snorts again and leaves them to it. The rest of the evening is spent half-assedly tidying the apartment so it doesn't look too awful for when Mandy arrives tomorrow.

His phone rings when he's half way through emptying the dishwasher. And... it's Jake.

"Fuck," Mickey whispers before he answers. "Hey."

"Hi, how are you?" Jake asks.

Mickey smiles to himself like a silly little teenager. "I'm good, you?"

"Yeah, I'm okay." There are a few beats of silence. "So, do you wanna come over?"

Mickey very nearly drops the bowl he's holding and thanks God he didn't because Dylan loves his china way too much. "Your face or...?" he jokes.

"Real funny," Jake says over his giggles and fuck is that cute. "But seriously - you wanna?"

It's late. Like, almost midnight late. "You know the time, right?"

"Yeah, Mickey" - his name sounds good coming out of his mouth - "I know the time."

"I'll be over in a bit," he says, hardly recognising the softness in his voice.

They hang up and Mickey stares outside at the snow falling from the sky, thinking he may be a little more than okay with how his life is at the moment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Guess who now has an AO3 account? Me, that's who. I might use it as another place to put up Shameless stuff, so yeah. And thank you for the reviews so far, you guys are lovely!**

* * *

The streets smell strangely fresh, like all of the pollution has been sucked from the air, and the streetlights glow warmly in the harsh cold. Mickey doesn't like the winter, but right now he can fully understand why a lot do. The cigarette he lit up a couple of minutes into his walk to Jake's is burning out dangerously close to his fingers - unprotected by his fingerless gloves - and when he flicks it away he watches it fizzle out in the untouched snow, utterly enthralled. Then another strong gust of wind reminds him just how fucking cold it is and why he's out in the first place.

Jake doesn't live in a part of Brooklyn that's as "nice" as where Mickey lives, but, unlike Jake, he thinks it's better. (He doesn't dwell too much on the similarities between Jake's neighbourhood and his old one.) His apartment building is three stories high and practically identical to most apartment blocks in areas like it. Jake lives on the third floor. He's pretty sure he's remembering that right.

Mickey send him a short text of '_here'_ when he arrives because Jake told him about his faulty buzzer the one time Mickey walked him home. Who the fuck says Mickey Milkovich can't be a gentleman? The door buzzes seconds later and he walks in, shuddering and pulling his parka tighter around him because there is absolutely no fucking change in temperature. He hopes Jake's place is different.

After he takes the stairs to the third floor, he knocks on Jake's door twice, then curses himself because he couldn't have made that sound any more fucking sinister.

When Jake opens the door, he's in loose, grey sweatpants and a tight black v-neck, grinning. "I was expecting the Grim Reaper." Jake does that; he'll make a sarcastic or snarky comment with a huge smile etched onto his face like he just can't help it. And Mickey's a huge damn girl for finding it cute.

"Just me, you fuckin' dork," Mickey says casually, eyes slowly darting about. He can feel the smile he's sporting.

With a scoff and a playful punch to Mickey's arm, Jake opens the door wider for Mickey to walk through.

It's not at all what he would have expected. The living area and the kitchen are all one space - totally normal - but what isn't, at least not to Mickey, is how _mature_ the place looks. It's all deep browns and warm beiges and olive greens; a full, ceiling high bookshelf in one corner by the window where a cream loveseat is; an old grandfather clock just past the hallway entrance beside a coat rack that look like they're fresh out of the 19th century; art and small sculptures that make Mickey's brain hurt when he tries to guess what they are, scattered about. Even the Christmas tree is decorated all colour coordinated and boring. What's so strange about it all is how bright Jake is in comparison to the dullness that he lives in. Maybe it's just the lack of windows; Mickey's used to a lot of them, his apartment is practically half glass.

"This is my cousin's idea of, uh, classic chic," Jake explains from where he's leaning against the kitchen counter. "My room is red and white; a lot more interesting."

Is that an invitation? Kind of sounds like one. "Oh yeah?"

Jake nods and starts to bite his lip looking down at his feet. The movement lacks purpose, totally unlike any other lip biting Mickey's seen, and yet it just oozes sexuality. Mickey genuinely believes that Jake has no clue just how damn attractive he is. And that's just fucking crazy.

"C'mere." Mickey doesn't know why his voice sounds kind of wrecked already, but it really does.

The sound of Jake's bare feet against the laminate flooring and his little side smile are like a promise. Once he's close enough, Mickey takes hold of his arm and pulls so that they collide, and, thankful that they're equal height, he easily claims Jake's mouth with his own. Kissing him isn't like the kissing Mickey's grown to know. They've kissed 'hello' and they've kissed 'goodbye' with zero intent. All of the kissing Mickey has ever done has had one clear reason, one destination it'll inevitably lead to: sex. The lips he's had on his and the tongues he's had in his mouth have only been there because of sex. But with Jake? They kiss because they can, because they want to. It's odd, actually really fucking weird if Mickey's honest, but he likes it. Weird could be his thing.

Slow at first, they're lips move together, tentative bites and sweeps of tongue until something seems to snap in both of them because now they're shamelessly groping and grinding; giving and taking with equal amounts of enthusiasm. Mickey doesn't realise they're moving until his back hits something solid before he stumbles backwards, almost falling. He detaches himself from Jake and looks around at what must be his room. Seeing the framed Taxi Driver poster, then the Goodfellas one makes Mickey smirk.

**#**

"Favourite movie."

This isn't as awkward as the first time they hung out. Not that that _was _awkward, only now this is actually close to comfortable.

"Goodfellas," Mickey answers around a mouthful of peanuts. Paul had wordlessly thrust a bowl of them at Mickey only minutes after he and Jake took a seat at the table right at the back. The man knows him.

Jake perks up at his answer, then nods approvingly. Mickey raises an eyebrow in question. "Mine's Taxi Driver, but I love Goodfellas," he says.

"Taxi Driver?"

"Uh-huh, what's wrong with that?" He sets down his beer.

Mickey shrugs. "It's kinda real fuckin' boring," he snorts.

"Are you-" Jake seems to realise he's close to shouting because he ducks a little and leans across the table closer to Mickey "-for real? You don't know from nothin'," he snorts and Mickey does too because he finds it hilarious when Jake gets all Brooklyn on him. Hilarious and hot. "Taxi Driver is like, a - it's a landmark film and is the inspiration for like, so many others. More than you'd think, and I -." He stops abruptly and actually blushes some, running a hand through his styled hair.

"Have a raging hard-on for Scorsese," Mickey finishes with a smirk.

"Well yeah. No! Uh, for his films," he explains, flustered, making Mickey smirk even more. He puts his beer bottle to his lips. "There's a difference," he grumbles around the rim, and, laughing, Mickey chokes on the beer he just swigged.

**#**

Mickey will admit that's he sort of stunned when he looks at the red wall directly in front of him. In black - and what is that? Paint? Marker pen? - is a detailed drawing of a city skyline: steep skyscrapers standing beside blocks of apartments and some sort of maze in the middle of it all. What makes Mickey go a little wide-eyed is that it's been drawn at an angle so that it feels as though you're standing on the edge looking down at a birdseye view. It's - christ, it's fucking amazing and Mickey just knows Jake did it.

"Fuck," Mickey breathes out.

"Um, yeah," Jake laughs nervously, "I got pretty bored my first summer here."

When Mickey looks back at him, Jake is smiling shyly and he's suddenly aware that he still has his coat and gloves and shoes on and he's about ten seconds away from breaking out in a sweat. His gloves are off and he's got one arm free of his sleeve when Jake snorts. Mickey eyes him curiously when he sits on the bed.

"Mm," Jake hums, pretending to be all thoughtful and leaning back on his forearms, "my very own striptease." His eyes rake over Mickey's body.

"Yeah, you should be so lucky," Mickey says clearly because stripping, all sexy and whatnot, is something he'll never do. Or never have the balls to do, whatever. Once his coat is off he throws it at Jake's head, snorting at his surprised yelp.

Jake throws it at Mickey's feet where he's working at his boots. "That's right, you undoe your laces," Jake says, fake seductive and down right ridiculous. At Mickey's glare he carries on with a cheeky smile. "The way you take off your boot, it's just so-"

"Alright, I'm goin!" Mickey makes to leave the room but Jake pulls him back by his t-shirt. "You gonna stop bein' an idiot?"

Jake shakes his head, slowly rubbing his hands up Mickey's chest to his shoulders, then his arms wrap around his neck bringing their bodies together. "You should shut me up," he mumbles quietly, his eyes so bright looking at Mickey.

They're so close, all parts of them touching, and Jake shifts his hips even closer when Mickey skims his hands over them to the small of his back. Jake kisses him, his fingers slowly carding through Mickey's hair, and when he licks at Mickey's bottom lip, Mickey opens his mouth willingly. As soon as their tongues touch, Jake lets out a contented sigh and it sort of makes any self-control Mickey might possess crumble away. He bites down on Jake's bottom lip and tugs, eliciting a quiet moan, then moves to his strong jawline, kissing and nibbling - the hands in his hair are only a slight distraction. He takes a couple of seconds to look at the stretch of skin that is Jake's neck, all tan and smooth and just asking for him to mark it up. Shit, he wants to mark him up so bad.

"Bed," Jake gasps as soon as Mickey begins sucking on his pulse point. "Mickey... come on."

Reluctantly, Mickey stops and watches the angry red mark he made fade to pink. Jake moves to the bed and lies back with his leg bent and parted, looking like a goddamn porn star, and how could Mickey not practically pounce on him? So that's exactly what he does.

He settles between Jake's legs, lowering his upper half when Jake pushes down his shoulders. They're kiss is nothing but frantic now; lacking finesse and so deep like they're trying to find some way to get inside each other, like they need to be as close as possible.

Jake is loud, moaning constantly and it turns Mickey on so fucking much that he almost wants to tell him to shut the hell up because he is not coming in his pants. No fucking way. He drags his mouth away and kneels to take off his t-shirt. Jake's follows only seconds after and Mickey is back to feeling like a teenaged virgin because Jake has his fucking _nipple pierced_. And sure, Mickey's been with a few guys who've had a pierced nipple, but this is Jake; the guy who often stumbles over his words and can barely get through a conversation without displaying at least one of his nervous habits; the guy who is smart and considerate and kind of a square. Guys like Jake don't get their nipples pierced. They just don't.

"Mickey?"

It's then that he realises he's been openly staring at Jake's nipple. Smooth. "Right, yeah," he says absent-mindedly before bending over and getting his mouth over that little pink nub.

The reaction is immediate. Jake hisses and gets a hand in Mickey's hair, tugging and pulling and pushing and Mickey wants to drive him wild. He knows, from experience, that the metal bar makes it feel even better and so he tugs at it with his teeth, making Jake moan and arch his back ever so slightly. He thinks maybe Jake is moaning actual words but he's far too busy licking and sucking and biting to concentrate on that.

"Mickey, fuck, Mickey, I wanna blow you," Jake moans, tugging at his hair so that he looks up.

And Mickey is at that stage where he's kind of out of it he's so turned on, so all he does in response is grind down against Jake - both of them achingly hard - and flip them.

They manoeuvre out of the rest of their clothes - Mickey takes note that Jake's dick is nearly as fucking pretty as his face - before they close the distance between them. All of that naked skin on his feels so damn good and Mickey puts his feet flat on the bed so that he can grind his dick against Jake's, promise of a blowjob be damned. That's until Jake actually starts moving down Mickey's body, his mouth leaving trails of hot, wet kisses and little bites.

Mickey's biting his lip, attempting to suppress the embarrassing groan he can feel in the back of his throat - he's wanted in Jake's pants for almost two fucking weeks - but when his hipbone begins to get sucked, he lets out a shocked moan and feels his dick twitch.

"Shit, that's hot."

Mickey looks down at Jake between his legs, face slightly flushed, and Jake looks back at him and for a moment the room is charged with such tension that Mickey just doesn't know what he's supposed to do to relieve it. Or if he wants to.

But then he says, "not gonna suck itself", with a croaky voice and thrusts his dick in Jake's face. Jake's playful smile turns into a dirty smirk and, without breaking eye contact, he takes Mickey in his mouth and right to the back of his throat.

"Fuck!" Mickey is well aware he shouted that, but Jesus fucking Christ, Jake is deepthroating him like it's the easiest thing in the world; hollowing out his cheeks and sucking him down all the way to the base over and over again.

The hand Mickey has twisted in Jake's hair must be hurting him, but Mickey is powerless to do anything but grunt and jerk his hips, driving even deeper into the heat of Jake's mouth - Jake simply lets him, moaning with his eyes closed and fondling Mickey's balls in the hand not rubbing his thigh.

Mickey snaps his eyes shut when Jake begins to lick and suck at the tip of his dick, smearing precome over his red lips, because the sight is too much. Jake begins tonguing at the slit whilst he jerks Mickey off, so slow and teasing that it almost hurts.

His eyes snap open again when Jake says, "you can fuck my mouth, if, uh, if you want."

"Christ," Mickey drawls, groaning, "you're gonna kill me, man." But he's putting both hands in Jake's hair and Jake is opening his mouth around him again and he isn't going to last much longer because Jake is just letting him pull his head down further and thrust his hips ups and it feels amazing - Mickey has all the control here and he needs that, wants it, because he can't let go otherwise.

Only thirty seconds later and Mickey comes with a loud groan, spilling into Jake's greedy mouth that swallows and swallows everything. Mickey lies back feeling boneless and content and hoping Jake doesn't expect him to return the favour - Mickey gives amazing head, he knows that, but he doesn't like doing it, doesn't get off on it like a lot of guys, including Jake, do. He'd rather someone come in his ass, if he's honest.

When Mickey opens his eyes again Jake is hovering over him, one hand beside Mickey's head and the other around his dick. Mickey bats it away and replaces it with his own, spit slicked. Jake buries his head in Mickey's neck, his heavy breathing tickling, and moans as Mickey flicks his wrist and rubs his thumb over the head. He picks up the speed when Jake's hips begin to jerk and then Jake's coming over his hand and onto his chest with a moan of Mickey's name.

They settle together under the duvet, kissing slow and lazy. Mickey supposes it's kind of nice, the staying close together after sex part, but that doesn't make him feel any less awkward. It doesn't seem to be obvious, though. Jake kisses him some more and draws random patterns against Mickey's ribs and that in itself sends Mickey to sleep.

...

The feeling of waking up with someone else doing something dangerously close to cuddling isn't as awful as Mickey used to think it would be. Sure, it's at that level of intimacy that Mickey isn't used to and has never wanted, but it isn't horrible. Far from it.

They shower together, Jake almost slipping over twice, and stand making out under the water until it turns cold and Jake starts to visibly shiver.

Mickey is fully dressed and Jake is in grey Calvin Klein boxer briefs staring into his wardrobe and drawers. "I swear, it's like, the only really gay thing I do," he'd said with a little smile when Mickey had asked why he was taking so long.

He isn't complaining because he gets to lounge on the bed and stare at Jake's ass and back whilst Jake decides what to wear. Jake always looks good, obviously, but Mickey isn't about to get all mushy and tell him that. Truth is, he likes what Jake wears: the skinny jeans that hug his ass but aren't too tight on the rest of him; the tight button downs; the loose, navy v-neck t-shirt he wore the first time they met that was almost hanging off one shoulder; Christ, even the sweatpants he was wearing last night. Mickey thinks that Jake dresses well enough that it probably doesn't surprise people when they find out he's gay, but not so well that they immediately think that he is. He's a bit of a hipster. Mickey snorts at that thought and goes back to staring at Jake.

He's practically inside the wardrobe, rummaging around for God knows what. When he steps back out he's holding a big, grey woollen jumper that should only look good on seventy year old men but will no doubt look great on Jake, too. Mickey needs to stop before he begins writing fucking love sonnets.

"Stop starin' at my ass, perv," Jake says with a frown that his smile betrays. The jumper does look really good on him.

"Stop prancin' around in your undies, Nancy," Mickey retorts.

Jake scoffs and bends over his drawers right in front of him, pretending to look around. "Like you don't love it," he wriggles his hips and laughs when Mickey stands and pulls him upright against him.

"Yeah, so stop being a fairy and put on some fuckin' pants if you want me to stop." Mickey's words are slightly muffled from where he has his lips attached to one of the hickeys he gave Jake last night. If he puts on a scarf, Mickey'll take it and hide it.

Jake turns around in Mickey's hold, looping his arms around his neck and kisses him long and slow, his tongue driving Mickey crazy as it twines and teases with his. "Nope," he pants, pulling back slightly but not out of Mickey's hold, "you're not distracting me with sex."

Mickey tightens his arms around Jake's waist. "Because?"

"I was promised homemade waffles." And shit, Mickey did promise him that. Why the hell did he promise?

He let's go and pulls out the first pair of jeans he gets his hands on. "Put these on and stop blue ballin' me."

Jake laughs the whole time he's putting on the jeans: skinny, faded and with one dishevelled knee. He looks fucking_ edible_ and Mickey wants to hit something.

They leave once Jake pockets his phone and keys.

There's a woman in a dirty fur coat and tiny dress sat on the stoop and when she sees them coming she turns around. Mickey's reminded of his mom when she was younger and actually alive and it turns his stomach.

"Hiya, sweetheart." Her voice sounds rough and used.

"Emma isn't here, Hayley, and I'm not giving you a thing, so drop the act," Jake snaps. He walks down the steps right past her and barely gives her a second look.

Mickey quickly follows.

"What about your friend here?" She saunters over to Mickey and she's close enough for him to see that her make-up is smeared and her knees are scratched and bloody. "Wanna exchange gifts?" She pointedly looks down at Mickey's crotch.

Jake scoffs and takes Mickey's hand to pull him away. "Skank ho," he mutters whilst Mickey lights up a cigarette. The comment makes him nearly burn his finger.

...

Jake is still telling Mickey about Hayley, who's his whore, heroin addict cousin, who's Emma's - the cousin he lives with - sister. It sounds like something that would happen to Mickey's family. Somewhere along the line it probably has.

"So yeah, um, she comes around when she's outta money. I never give her any but Emma can't help it sometimes and-"

"He's alive!" Dylan yells when Mickey walks through the door. It startles Jake silent.

"No shit," Mickey says, ushering Jake inside and following. He freezes when he looks over at the couch. Beside Zoe is his fucking sister. Mandy is here. In his apartment. At twelve in the afternoon. She isn't supposed to be here until three. Shit. "What the fuck are you doin'?" he asks her.

Her smiles drops instantly and she gives him her best unimpressed look. "I swear to God, if you've forgot that I'm coming-"

"No! What the fuck are you doing here at twelve and not three?" he asks, speaking extra slow.

"I used my leftover dad money to book an earlier train," she explains with a shrug, like Mickey isn't freaking out and wanting to hit her.

It isn't that he doesn't want her to know about Jake, it's that he hasn't told her about him yet - he didn't think there was much to tell - and she'll no doubt get stupid happy about Mickey having, well, just seeing someone, and then she'll ask for all the details because he and his sister seem to overshare and expect the other to do the same in return - more Mandy than Mickey - and once Jake leaves she'll get all bipolar on his ass and get pissed at him for not telling her.

"Thanks for telling me," he mutters, stalking into the kitchen. The move actually puts him closer to Mandy but he needs coffee and he needs it right now.

"Um. Hi." It's Jake who speaks and Mickey feels like an asshole because he just walked away and left him there to be stared at by Mandy and Zoe, both of them strangers to him.

Zoe smiles, too polite for it to be real, and walks over to him. She's in Dylan's pyjamas and Mickey rolls his eyes at her. "Jake, right?" Jake nods. "I'm Zoe."

"Oh right, hey, nice to meet you." Fucking Christ, he needs to stop with the shy smiles because Mickey can't keep calling him cute in his head. He will not turn into a fucking girl.

"Jake? You're one of Mickey's friends?" And that's Mandy getting curious. Great.

Jake looks over at Mickey, his mouth opening and closing with no noise escaping. Mickey doesn't know what to do and before he can Zoe, the bitch that she is, speaks up.

"Boyfriend, actually," she says with a smirk in Mickey's direction.

He busies himself by making the coffee and blocks out Mandy's excited chatter and questions aimed at Jake about how they met and what he does and whatever else she deems necessary. It's kind of a dick move, and Dylan tells him that round a mouthful of toast, but he doesn't want to deal with it and he's making waffles, "so shut up, man."

"I'm just sayin', dude," Dylan shrugs.

Mickey looks at him from across the breakfast counter then over at Jake. He's sat between Zoe and Mandy - most likely their idea so he can't easily escape - and is smiling at whatever it is that Zoe's saying. Mickey can't make out what's being said over the sound of Friends playing on the tv but he has a horrible feeling it's some embarrassing story about himself.

"He doesn't seem too bothered," Mickey says, taking out the cooked waffles and transfering them to a plate. He rolls his eyes at Dylan's concerned glare. "Christ, why'd you even buy these plates if you're gonna get all OCD when someone uses them?"

Dylan stops staring at Mickey holding his china plate. "Shut up and feed your gay lover," he grumbles.

He backhands Mickey's ass as he walks past.

Mickey leans over the back of the couch at Jake's side and places the plate in his lap. "Your waffles, princess."

With a smile, Jake turns his head; only a few inches are between them and it's hugely distracting. "Thanks," he says, then he kisses Mickey and it takes Mickey by surprise but he kisses back for a couple of seconds then pulls away.

"I'm so not used to you being cute," Mandy says, "it's weird."

He flips her off and goes back to the kitchen to make his own waffles and ignore Dylan's questions about how good Jake is in the sack.

"Seriously," Mickey says, settling across from him on a stool, "how many times have you done this?"

"Like, every time you get lucky."

"And how many times do I answer?"

"Probably the same amount of times you break and end up telling me anyways," Dylan says with a smug smile. He's right and they both know it.

Mickey sucks the syrup from his thumb and shrugs. "Not this time, man."

"Protecting his virtue? So sweet."

Even though it tastes rank, Mickey steals Dylan's last bit of buttered, burnt toast and stuffs it in his mouth along with the waffle already in there. He chews with his mouth wide open because it never fails to make Dylan retch and gag. Like he is right now.

"Sick son of a bitch."

...

It takes an hour for Mickey to successfully drag Jake away from his two biggest fans and into his bedroom. He locks the door because he just knows that Dylan will barge in with his phone to try to get a picture of Mickey in a compromising position - it's been one of his priorities since Mickey caught him jerking off and quickly took a picture before running away to avoid throwing up or getting his ass kicked.

"I really like your sister and Zoe, she's, uh, she's pretty cool. Intimidating, but reall-"

Mickey shuts him up by crowding him against the door and kissing him until he has to stop to breathe. He rests his face in the crook of Jake's neck and lets him play with his hair.

Jake hums happily. "I've been waiting for you to do that," he mumbles and Mickey pulls back to look at him.

"Not big on PDA." Unless you count groping and kissing strangers in crowded clubs PDA, but Mickey isn't an idiot so he keeps that to himself. Besides, he won't give Mandy the satisfaction by being all boyfriend-y around her; she claims he's lost his edge and he isn't going to prove her right.

Jake kisses him, sweet and long. "I get it," he says, but Mickey thinks he looks sort of disappointed and he doesn't know what to do with that because Jake is clearly an affectionate guy and Mickey just isn't.

A message tone chimes from Jake's pocket and he gets his phone out to read the text. He sighs and says, "I gotta go, I'll call you" before kissing Mickey one last time and leaving.

The door opens again a second later and Jake pops his head back in. "Have a good Christmas."

Mickey nods. "Yeah, you too."

...

Mandy walks into his room with a pizza and a six-pack of beer. Silently, she sits cross-legged on the foot of is bed facing him and passes him a beer. It's pretty late, Mickey knows that much, and he's been fucking about on the laptop inbetween napping for the whole day. Nobody interrupted him and he thinks that's because they thought he wanted to be alone to mope or some shit.

He takes a slice of Margherita and eats it in three bites. He feels shitty and he doesn't know why but he can't tell Mandy to leave and he doesn't really want to. The alcohol makes him feel slightly better so he downs his beer and Mandy passes him another.

When they were young, every Christmas Eve Mandy would sneak into Mickey's room and climb into his bed. She'd always wake him up but he'd pretend to still be asleep so that he could use it as an excuse for why he let Mandy cuddle with him. As they got older, their little tradition changed: Mandy would still go into his room but he'd be up and they'd just sit there until they both fell asleep. It's probably really weird and slightly codependant, but Mickey couldn't care less.

The last thing he remembers before he falls asleep is Mandy saying, "if he's what makes you happy then keep him around. I want you happy." He can't find it in himself to call her out on being such a sap so he pulls her closer and stays quiet.

* * *

**I promise there will be some Ian/Gallgher action soon!**


	4. Chapter 4

_They're like robots almost; their movements are slow and sort of erratic. They move about aimlessly before sitting at a long, wooden table that isn't theirs in a kitchen that doesn't belong to their messy house. The only free seat is between Mandy and Iggy and Mickey sits there without saying a word. It's peaceful, serene, like maybe what a real family is like at Christmas; it's silent, empty, like maybe what a scared family is like before it breaks. _

_Steamy hot, delicious food suddenly appears on their plates and everyone's eyes stay down, glued to their platefuls. They don't eat, though. Nobody moves but his dad and all he does is look over at Mickey and sneer. When he backhands Joey's face, he doesn't look away and when he gets up, punches Joey in the gut then gets Iggy in a chokehold, he doesn't look away. All four of them smash the plates on the floor and they're all staring at Mickey like they know something he doesn't. _

_When Mickey is able to look to his side, Mandy is looking past him at their mom with tear after tear falling from her eyes to roll down her pale cheeks. There are needles covering the flesh of his mom's forearms and they are wedged in so deep they must be piercing her veins. _

_There is so much noise now, too much, and it's his brothers and dad fighting on the floor. The sounds of their punches and kicks sound vibrations through the room and Mickey's body feels like it's buzzing. _

_The walls are blood red. They weren't before. _

_His mom is holding his face in her hands that are so cold they burn. Her lips are blue and her dark hair looks loose like if he tugged at it Mickey could pull it right out. She stares and stares and Mandy holds his hand beneath the table and then his mom is screaming right in his face, so loud and raw that it has to hurt. But then she's already dead. She lets him go and it's only him that is left with Mandy gripping his hand._

Mandy is nestled up against him when he wakes and he knows they're safe, that she is safe, but he still pulls her closer. Just in case.

...

Whilst Mandy showers Mickey makes pancakes and waffles in nothing but sweatpants and socks. The dream has put him in a weird mood; it isn't exactly bad but it definitely isn't good. Maybe it's nostalgia that he's feeling, or whatever the fuck Zoe calls it. Whatever _it_ is, Mickey doesn't like it, but he gets the same way every Christmas, has done since he was eleven, as it's the only day that his mom's absence becomes noticeable. Christmas was the one day of the year that she didn't shoot up or threaten to kill anybody for breathing and the day would be alright. His mom would cook a somewhat nice meal and his dad wouldn't get overly drunk and his brothers didn't fight constantly.

In retrospect, Mickey knows she must have taken something to keep herself calm and happy, but he feigns ignorance - he doesn't want to taint the only good memories he has of her.

...

Mickey's on his second serving of breakfast when Dylan gets home. It's only half eleven but Dylan's family all get together for breakfast and presents so he leaves at about seven. In his hands are two big Christmas gift bags and he's wearing a fucking awful snowman jumper. "Merry Christmas, Milkoviches," he says in a falsetto voice with a smile on his face. He dumps the bags on the couch and joins them at the breakfast counter.

Mandy returns the greeting and Mickey smiles tightly at him. He wishes he was feeling happy, but he can't shake the weird mood he's in. He's pretty sure Mandy's noticed because all she's said to him this morning was "merry Christmas" with a hug. She hasn't questioned Mickey and for that he's grateful. If Dylan notices he doubts he'll leave it be.

"So when you guys are done feastin', we're openin' presents, right? 'Cause, I gotta say, ya'll are gettin' some crazy good gifts." Dylan always sounds so much more Texan after he's been with his family and it never fails to amuse Mickey.

"Is that right, redneck?" Mickey says into his coffee mug.

"Well, hey now, Mick," he says in an exaggerated drawl, "we all know you're all hat and no cattle," he turns to Mandy, "ain't that right, sweetheart?"

Furrowing her eyebrows, Mandy looks back at Dylan, then Mickey and back at Dylan again. "Yeah, I have no idea what you're saying."

Mickey stands and puts his plate in the sink. "Because you don't speak hillbilly."

Mandy laughs and Dylan gasps loudly, fake offended. He walks over to Mickey and slides his arms around his waist. "Don't act like my Southern charm don't charm you, baby," he says slowly against Mickey's neck.

Mickey sort of forgets that most friends - especially two guys, one gay and one who claims to be straight - don't really act like this, but he's so used to it that it takes Mandy saying she didn't know Dylan swung that way for Mickey to tap Dylan's side and get out of his embrace.

The two of them sit down by the tree and once Mandy's finished her food, she settles down in the beanbag next to them. Mickey passes Dylan his present and he unwraps it with the enthusiasm of a child. It's a Boy London beanie hat and season seven of Supernatural and Mickey makes a mental note to thank Zoe for the idea. Mickey's presents from Dylan are a mosaic ash tray - "so you stop using coffee cups" - a pair of jeans and shot glasses; random gifts are Dylan's specialty. Both Dylan and Mandy got each other underwear - Mandy's mainly a joke present of fluorescent coloured boxer briefs and Dylan's not because he's inappropriate and a fucking idiot and got her a lacy bra and thong set. Mickey doesn't want to focus on how he knew what size to get.

Mickey smirks when he opens the first of Mandy's presents to him: a huge box of condoms.

"For you and your slutty ways," she says seriously.

Mickey rolls his eyes and opens the newest season of Breaking Bad - he's both thankful and really not that he drunkenly told Mandy how much he loves Aaron Paul. He says thanks and then shoves her present at her.

She sort of half-gasps half-chokes when she takes out the dress. It's black, sleeveless and has this red lace stuff over it. It cost a lot but Mickey can afford it and Zoe said that Mandy would love it. Unless her reaction was one of disgust, Mickey thinks it was a good choice.

"Fuck Mickey. How did you afford this?" she asks, looking at him with curious eyes.

Mickey shrugs; money hasn't been an issue for a while.

**#**

His eye is fucking killing him but it's worth it. This guy, Chris, he's been practically begging to get his ass beat for nearly a month since he moved into Mickey's English class, and who is Mickey to deny him that? He managed to get in a single hit between Mickey's punches and kicks before the teachers pulled them apart. They didn't do jack shit, not really. Just sent Mickey home with a roll of their eyes and told him to stay there and out of trouble.

Mickey spat at Chris' feet and left with a shit eating grin.

So it's only just past one and he's home already. He sneaks in as quietly as he can because he doesn't want to deal with his hungover dad. The door squeaks slightly when he closes it but, other than that, he's silent.

When he peaks his head into the living room he isn't met by the usual view of his dad passed out, drunk off his ass. Instead, he sees his dad stuffing several wads of bills under a floorboard.

Mickey's pissed for about half a second, thinking that his dad is hiding money they could spend on food and shit, before the dots connect in his head. His dad has been spending more nights out than usual, like whole nights, and he's jittery all the fucking time: he opens the door to look out at least five times a day and peaks through the windows almost constantly, jumping every time something blows up on the tv. His dad, his fucking idiot of a dad, must be in deep with someone - most likely the Harley's who think they're part of the goddamn mafia and let anyone do jobs for them. Probably thought it'd be smart to make some cash and keep most of it for himself.

Once his dad appears to be done, Mickey opens and closes the front door loudly then acts like he's just got in.

His dad spins around, wide-eyed and nervous. "The fuck you doin' home?" he asks, gruff and snappy. That in itself would tell Mickey that something's up. His dad doesn't give a shit why he and his brothers are home when they should be at school or work.

Pointing to his eye, Mickey says, "fight", before walking through the living room to the kitchen. He makes sure to stand on the floorboard his dad was putting money under and smirks to himself when the man tenses. He's easier to read than a fucking book.

The door slams shut whilst Mickey makes pizza bagels. Mickey plates his food then shouts out his brothers' names, checking if they're home. He doesn't bother shouting Iggy's. He wouldn't wake up anyway. Nobody responds to him and so Mickey guesses it's safe to pull up the floorboard and count.

$12,000. _Twelve_. All of it is in twenty and fifty dollar bills and Mickey can't actually believe his dad would be such an idiot. It's like something Frank fucking Gallagher would pull. And it must be the Harley's that he's in with because nobody else would trust a Milkovich. For obvious reasons. But what the Harley's lack in brains, they make up for in muscle. So it'll probably take a while for them to figure out his dad's lies, but when they do he'll be dead. Simple. And if the money is still there, Mickey figures it's his.

He'll wait for it, Mickey can do that, probably wait until he's twenty-one then give some to Mandy maybe and move. New York. Probably. He's always wanted to live there.

He's never thought anything really good could come from his dad dying. He sort of does now.

**#**

They're lounging about watching Home Alone when Mandy's phone starts playing some shitty dubstep song and she leaves for the guest room she's staying in to answer it. It's probably Ian again.

Mickey has gotten a few texts wishing him a good Christmas - from Jake, Iggy, some of the Gallaghers, Zoe, Paul and a few others from work - and he's glad nobody has called him yet. He hates talking to most people on the phone.

Dylan bumps his shoulder against Mickey's and Mickey looks at him. "What?"

"You're not gonna tell me what's up, are you?

"I'm fine, man," he says, which translates to "no, I'm not".

Dylan nods, unconvinced, before rustling around in one of his gift bags. He reemerges with a bottle of Smirnoff and gets Mickey's new shot glasses. He sets two of them on the coffee table and fills them with vodka. "Not that I promote drinkin' away problems, but your face looks so much prettier when you ain't frownin', so." He hands a glass to Mickey and they down them.

All Mickey does is savour the burn of the liquid going down his throat, whereas Dylan slams his glass down onto the coffee table and woops.

Mandy comes back in when they're on their third shot and gives Dylan an expectant look. He sighs overdramatic and pours her a glass. She sits down on Mickey's other side and they take their shots.

"So, y'know that promotion I told you about?" she asks and Mickey doesn't know what she's talking about or if she's talking to him. Dylan looks just as confused. She scoffs. "Seriously, Mickey? I told you that the line of gyms Ian works at is hiring new managers across the East side and that he might be getting one."

Mickey can't for the life of him remember ever having that conversation. "Right, yeah," he says and Dylan snorts.

With an aggravated sigh, Mandy slaps his arm. "You're such an ass," she complains. "Ian just told me that his boss said he could be getting the promotion. He finds out in two days."

"Okay. Great." Mickey thinks that's good and all but why is she telling him? He doesn't really care that much.

"The job is in New York. We'll be moving here."

There's silence after that and Mickey knows he's staring at Mandy but he can't think of anything to say. Since he moved away, the only thing he's gotten close to regretting is leaving Mandy. Yeah, she pissed him off a _lot _and he often wished she'd just fuck off but she was, still is, his baby sister and his favourite sibling. Fuck, maybe even his favourite person. They talk a lot and they Skype and occasionally make the trip to see each other in person. It isn't the same though.

"Well shit!" Dylan exclaims making the other two jump. "I'll be shackin' up with two Milkoviches. Awesome." He speaks with a huge, genuine smile on his face and Mickey shakes his head fondly at him.

Mandy laughs quietly to herself. "Thanks Dylan, but we can just get a place. If he even gets the job."

"Oh no you don't. It took me weeks to get Mickey to agree to move in with me and I ain't takin' any shit from you." He leans over Mickey's thighs and points a finger at Mandy. "You and your boy Ethan-"

"It's Ian," Mandy snorts.

Dylan nods, clearly tipsy; he's such a lightweight. "Right, Ian. Anyway, the two of you are movin' in once he gets that job. End of. Full stop. De nada." He falls back against the couch, pulling out his hairband so that his hair falls across his face before he pushes it back.

"You realise you just said you're welcome in Spanish, right?" Mandy asks with a smile that Mickey mirrors.

With a snort, Dylan shakes his head.

...

They all eat a Christmas dinner, courtesy of Dylan, and Mickey pokes at Dylan's "food baby" whilst they watch shitty movies just to see him retch like he's going to puke and dazily swat Mickey's hand away.

When Dylan has recovered from eating so much, he puts on a pair of the fluorescent boxer briefs Mandy got him over his jeans and jumps off of various pieces of furniture, claiming to be Superman. It'd be a lot more funny if he weren't jumping onto Mickey's back or his lap every time.

By ten o'clock, Mickey and Dylan are so drunk that they pass out and don't feel Mandy drawing cat whiskers on their cheeks and writing 'loves cock' on Mickey's forehead and 'secretly loves cock' on Dylan's. It takes her blasting Last Christmas for them to wake up and then Dylan's standing on the coffee table singing and dancing. He's completely killing it but it still makes Mickey laugh until he cries before he's dragging him back down onto the couch. Mickey seems to notice that Dylan has black marker on his face at the same time Dylan notices Mickey does. They burst out laughing, Dylan collapsing on top of Mickey and giving him a mouthful of his dirty blonde hair.

Neither of them notice Mandy filming the whole thing.

...

Two days. Mickey has been practically begging Mandy to take the video of him and Dylan off of Facebook for two days. And he also still has marker on his face, though you have to get real close and squint to see it. Whatever, it's still fucking there. The bitch.

All three of them did nothing on boxing day. Well, Mickey and Dylan scrubbed at their faces furiously after Zoe arrived to give them their presents, and then spent the day being mocked. Other than that, nothing happened and Mickey enjoyed the easygoing feel to it all. Mandy didn't stop smiling all day and Mickey knew she was feeling the same.

So he's walking to Jake's - honestly, he's hoping that Jake's invite was a booty call - and checking his reflection in every empty car window he passes because no matter what Zoe said about wearing make-up not making him a stereotype, he was not going to use her fucking concealer.

When he gets to Jake's he stubs out his cigarette and sends Jake a text.

Jake's already stood at the open door in jeans. Just these ridiculous skinny jeans that hang off his hips and show a whole lot of underwear.

Mickey thinks either sex is in his near future or that Jake is the biggest cocktease to ever live. Really, Mickey just wants to ride him like crazy.

"Hi," Jake says with a small smile, resting his hip against the door jamb.

Mickey gives him a nod, says hi back and then he's on him, sucking and kissing Jake's neck whilst his jeans get undone and are pushed past his hips. He turns to close the door then steps out of them and Jake plasters himself to Mickey's back giving him one hell of a hickey whilst he works his hand down Mickey's boxers.

They somehow move to Jake's bed, shedding their clothes on the way. Mickey pushes Jake down then straddles him. Jake grips Mickey's thighs and begins to rub circles into his skin as they kiss. It's gentle and Mickey doesn't really know what to do with that. Sex is never a gentle thing for him and he doesn't think he wants it to be. He pulls away from Jake's mouth, tells him to get the lube and starts fingering himself open. He's being openly stared at and it's sort of making him uncomfortable but it's forgotten when Jake starts to jerk him off.

When Mickey slides down onto Jake's dick, they both moan quietly and Jake's hands grip Mickey's thighs a little tighter. Mickey doesn't give Jake a chance to get some control or whatever, he just lifts himself up and begins riding him. He sets a fast, rough pace, hands braced on Jake's chest to give him some leverage and he closes his eyes. He never fucks looking at whoever it is he's with and he never thinks about them, just focuses on how good it feels. Zoe tried to tell him why but he didn't want to hear it; he doesn't need or want to be reminded of how he's still kind of fucked up about being a fag and all that. He doesn't even realise that this is the first time they're having actual sex.

Jake is constantly making noise, most of it is moaning but he says things like "fuck, you feel good" or "Mickey, don't stop". Mickey's heard it all before and it always turns him on. Jake starts to thrust up as Mickey grinds down and the angle is just right and Mickey can't help the groan he lets out. And once Jake starts jerking him off in time, their movements become more frantic, their moans even louder and then Jake's hip are jerking off of the bed and Mickey's are jerking down. They're both left breathless and sated as Mickey climbs off of Jake's lap and collapses beside him.

Jake hums happily and asks Mickey if he had a good Christmas. "Yeah, it was good," he says, and it's only half a lie. Thirty seconds later he remembers to ask Jake back. "You?"

Jake curls his body against Mickey's side and he rests his head on Mickey's chest. "It was really good, like, seeing all the family. It's just really nice to all be together, y'know?" Mickey stays quiet because no, he doesn't. He never has.

**#**

"I am not playing fucking Scrabble, Mandy! Fuck off!" Joey storms into Mickey's room just as he's changing into a clean shirt. His cousin, Leah, has some sort of fucking deep-seated hatred for Mickey and as soon as he made one snarky comment she "accidentally" spilt her beer all over him. Fucking bitch.

"You don't think she's just gonna come in here and drag you out there?" Mickey asks as he sits down beside Joey and lights a cigarette. It's funny how the only time Mickey and his brothers are tolerant - almost kind, sometimes - to each other is when their dad's sister, husband and kids come round. Stand united and all that bullshit.

Joey takes the cigarette when Mickey offers it and is about to speak when Mandy bursts in. "Get the fuck back out there," she hisses. Neither of them move until she threatens to castrate them in their sleep. They all take Mandy's threats pretty seriously after that time she shaved off Iggy's eyebrows. The girl is sort of batshit.

Their house is way too small for all this shit, Mickey thinks. His dad and uncle are having some sort of staring contest in the living room and all five of Mickey's cousins are crammed onto the couch and the floor surrounding the coffee table. The kitchen is the only safe place and Mickey would go straight for it if it weren't for the fact that his aunt, Jane, is having some really intense conversation with Iggy and Nicky. Weird.

So he and Joey just kind of hover near where their dad is sat. One of the twins - and Mickey can't even tell the difference, has never really been able to - starts chewing his finger nails and spitting them out. Mickey and Joey both share a look because they know firsthand how badly that pisses Mandy off.

She places down her word - apple - and then gives him a look. "Can you not do that, you pig?" she says with a look of disgust on her face.

Their cousin raises an eyebrow at her then flips her off and starts chewing on his middle fingers nail. Such a dumb as fuck move.

Mandy leans across the coffee table she and the other three cousins are playing on and looks up at him. "Stop it, or I'll chop your fucking fingers off and then how will you get to hear your girlfriend fake her way through an orgasm?"

Mickey laughs outright at that because it's a well-known fact that his cousin - and he's pretty sure it's Tom because Ryan isn't so much of a prick - can't get his girlfriend to let him fuck her. Mickey'd maybe feel a little bad for the guy if he didn't completely deserve it.

"Fuck you," Tom says, leaning forward so his face is closer to Mandy's.

Mandy smirks. "Just because your girlfriend won't let you doesn't mean you should ask your cousins."

It all happens so fast that Mickey feels dizzy with it. All he knows is that Tom touched Mandy too rough and that was fucking it. Nobody touches Mandy like that, and if they do, well, they deserve to get head butted.

"Get the fuck back, you psycho!" his uncle Sean shouts, leaping off the couch and pushing himself between Mickey and Tom who's currently clutching his nose and getting tended to by his sisters. Mickey hopes it's broken. And seriously, the amount of times his uncle has called him a psycho - Christ, the guy needs to think of an insult that actually _insults_ Mickey. This shit is getting real old.

Aunt Jane, Iggy and Nicky come rushing in and just stop and stare. His brothers seem to put the scene together, what with Mickey looking so angry, Sean standing in front of a bleeding Tom and Mandy looking both pissed and grateful at Mickey. The Milkoviches are nothing if not accustomed to this kind of thing.

"That piece of shit ever touches Mandy again, and I'll kill him myself," their dad says from the other side of the room.

Jane audibly gasps. "Terry!"

Sean takes a couple of steps closer and instinctively, his children stand at his back as do Mickey and his siblings at their dad's.

"Seriously, stop it!" Jane shouts, but she already sounds like she knows what's coming.

"If your son ever touches mine, I'll kill _him_ myself," Sean says and not a second later he's got a fist to his cheek and is stumbling back.

The thing is, they don't really fight, not properly. Okay, Mickey is kicking Tom's ass but the fucker deserves it. But other than that it's just chaos and shouting for no real reason. It's like a tradition or some shit. Mickey hates it, hates his family, but he loves to fight. So. Go figure.

...

A few of them are nursing bruises and cuts in the kitchen when Mickey comes back out from his room. His dad is passed out in his chair and Leah is watching tv sprawled across the couch like she owns it. Christ, Mickey hates her.

"Hey _Mick_," she says, twirling a piece of her brown hair around her finger. "Fucked any hot girls recently? Hm, probably not." Mickey remembers the day that Leah cornered him and told him that she knew he was a fag. Fuck, he can probably remember the exact time it was when she told him. He has no clue how she knew because he obviously denied it over and over and he'd never been caught doing anything by anyone, least of all her. And he's no rainbow flag waving fairy so he really just doesn't fucking get it. He had to punch the wall beside her head to keep from punching her. It wasn't because he didn't want to.

"Go fuck your mother," he grinds out through his teeth, not caring that he's talking about his aunt.

Leah giggles, actually fucking giggles, then bites her lip. "Why don't you fuck yours?" She fakes realising something. "Oh right, I forgot. You fuck guys, not dead whore junkies."

Mickey's never been speechless before. He's been silent after a shock but that was more from choice or not knowing how to word what he wants to say. But now? Mickey has nothing. Mickey has nothing but this aching feeling that tells him this isn't how families should be.

Except maybe his is because it always will be.

**#**

Mickey leaves Jake's once Emma gets back. She seems nice enough but Mickey doesn't know Jake well enough to be comfortable around him and a stranger.

"So, I'll, like, give you a call or, uh, whatever," Jake says at the door.

Mickey shrugs. "Sure. Or just come to our new years eve party," he says, "'cause Dylan'll find some way to invite you anyways."

Jake's smile falters a little and Mickey doesn't know why. He won't dwell on it though, they had a pretty good day of watching The Goonies and Back to The Future and exchanging blowjobs and eating turkey sandwiches. Besides, Jake can't smile all the fucking time. Even though he practically does.

"Yeah, sounds good," Jake says. "So yeah, see ya?"

Mickey crowds him against the door and kisses him, letting it get heated and dirty, before pulling away. "Yeah. See ya."

...

When Mickey gets home, Mandy is talking excitedly on her phone and waves Mickey over. He sits down in the corner of the couch, stretching his legs out and getting comfortable.

He's on his way to falling asleep when Mandy starts to slap at his thigh and does something close to squealing. He gives her a confused look because his sister doesn't _squeal_.

"Oh my God, Ian, oh my fucking God! Okay, yeah, bye." She hangs up and lets out a big sigh. "Ian got the job," she says all quiet and important.

Somehow, even though he had no expectations, it isn't what Mickey expected to hear. "Fuck," he breathes out. He doesn't know what to say; he doesn't handle excitement particularly well. "That's fuckin' great, Mandy."

"Right?" She gets up onto her knees and faces him. "I told him what Dylan said and then he told me that his boss was like, if he can find a place to live then he can start around the 15th. It's so good for him."

Mickey frowns. "You too, right?"

"Well, yeah," Mandy says and she's looking down at her black nails and it's fucking disconcerting as hell. "It's just - well, it's his job y'know?" She looks at Mickey for a long moment. "It's all okay," she says, "really, it's okay."

And Mickey doesn't know what she means or who she's trying to convince.

* * *

**I'm hoping this chapter gives you guys a little more insight into the backstory and how Ian and Mickey can actually get together, because I know it hasn't seemed likely to happen yet. But it will and I'm excited about it! I'm hoping to write the Gallaghers into the next chapter but if it doesn't work out then they'll definitely be in the one after it! Okay, yeah, bye.**


	5. Chapter 5

The sound of whatever dubstep remix Synergy is playing tonight is giving Mickey one hell of a headache. What's worse is that it's only twelve and he doesn't finish his shift until two. He looks to his side and can see Dylan leaning back against the drink shelves massaging his temples. Neither of them really enjoy the club scene, what with its often shitty remixes of perfectly good songs and persistent strobe lighting. And it's not like they can drink on the job to soften the effects.

The club itself isn't really that busy. Strange because it's the day before new years eve. Mickey can easily spot Mandy, Zoe and two more of Zoe's friends dancing; just past the point of tipsy, shouting along to the lyrics and shaking their hips to the beat.

Mickey thinks they look sort of ridiculous, especially Mandy who looks like a rock band groupie, but Dylan seems to be damn near salivating at the sight of Zoe in her tight, red dress. Every now and then she'll glance over at him and they'll share this look. And every time it happens Mickey feels like screaming at Dylan to man the fuck up and kiss her or something.

"You're not subtle, man. At all," Mickey says whilst he makes a gin and tonic and Dylan stares some more at Zoe.

"Yeah, whatever," Dylan mumbles. And that isn't a wisecrack, not even close.

Mickey serves the middle-aged woman (cougar, such a fucking cougar) her gin and tonic and moves closer to Dylan. "The fuck's goin' on?" he asks, leaning his hip against the bar. "You and Zoe have been weird for a few days, what is it?" That isn't strictly true; they haven't been weird because Zoe has hardly been around and _that_ is what's weird.

"It's just... fuck, Mickey, pretty sure I fucked up, dude." Dylan rubs his hands over his face and exhales loudly through his fingers. And Mickey is kind of worried.

"Okay. How?"

Dylan groans and drops his head on top of the bar. "We hooked up," he mumbles into the wood.

Mickey stares at him for a moment then claps him on the back. Dylan looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. "And you're fuckin' grumpy about that? You two have been after each other since I've known you!"

For a moment, Dylan smiles but it falters soon after. "I_ was_ happy, real happy. But then she was sayin' all this shit about not knowin' if it was a good idea an', like, if it would mess up our friendship." He snorts and it's self-deprecating. "I told her I loved her, dude."

Mickey tells him that it's about time he did that and when Dylan tells him Zoe had said she loved him too, he claps him on the back again. However, Dylan doesn't seem to be sharing Mickey's enthusiasm because he doesn't move from where he's almost lying on the bartop. Mickey decides to let him have his freak out because he thinks that if they carry on this weird little heart-to-heart Dylan will ask him for advice and Mickey can barely make a good decision by himself. He can't do that for other people.

...

Zoe and Mandy stick around until Mickey and Dylan finish their shifts, then they all leave together.

With some effort, Mickey successfully blocks out Mandy talking about Ian and the Gallaghers coming up for new years, desperate for the ache in his head to ease up. She's mainly talking to Zoe, who's walking beside her a few feet in front of Mickey and Dylan, and she seems to be listening so Mickey figures he can get away with it.

Dylan is clearly tense and miserable beside him and it's weird because Dylan never gets down. Ever. Even when his grandma died last year he didn't get overly sad, choosing to focus on the memories he had of her rather than the fact that he'd never make any new ones.

This thing with Zoe has messed him up.

...

When they arrive home, Mandy goes straight to the room she's staying in and in about two minutes she'll be fast asleep. Alcohol always makes her tired.

Whilst Mickey downs a glass of water and takes a couple Advil, he sees Dylan talking quietly with Zoe near the front door. Curious, he watches as Dylan gestures to himself and then at her, his brows raised. She looks down at her now bare feet and says something which prompts Dylan to touch her arm, moving his hand slowly up and down. It seems like a really private moment, one Mickey shouldn't be watching, but he kind of can't help it. Dylan leans even closer to Zoe - man seriously needs to learn what personal space is - as he moves his hand up her arm and around her shoulders. They come together in a tight hug and even from where he's stood, Mickey can see how tightly they're clinging to each other.

He puts his glass in the sink and goes to his bedroom.

...

Two seconds and Mickey would have been asleep. Two seconds and he would have drifted off, comfortable and calm in his bed. But no, of course that's when Dylan decides to moan as loudly as he possibly can, totally giving it away that he and Zoe are fucking.

Mickey groans and rolls over, pulling his pillow over his ear as he goes. It doesn't help. Not even a little. And then the bed moving and Zoe's breathy moans and sighs of Dylan's name are all he can fucking hear. He hates that their rooms are next to each other and that the heads of their beds align. Why the fuck they didn't figure out why that'd be a huge mistake, Mickey doesn't know. And seriously, an apartment like this shouldn't have such thin fucking walls. Jesus.

For a moment, Mickey sort of wonders if this is all a way for Dylan to get back at Mickey for all the times he's brought someone home and not exactly been quiet about it. Then he remembers, unfortunately, that when Dylan gets going he forgets that he has vocal chords and isn't alone.

He'd storm in and yell at them to keep it down but he knows that this isn't just sex for them and though Mickey doesn't know what that's like, he isn't an idiot; it means something and he's clever enough to understand that.

The sound of the bed banging against the wall picks up in speed and Mickey can hear how both Dylan and Zoe are moaning constantly and whispering (not really, because Mickey can _still fucking hear them_) "I love you" like a weird chant.

And it is so damn uncomfortable when Mickey actually knows that Dylan has made Zoe come and then a few seconds later he is too. He looks up to his ceiling and prays that they're too spent to get going again.

Tense, he lies completely still in his bed and after almost ten minutes of near silence, Mickey gets comfortable again and closes his eyes.

...

The atmosphere when Mickey walks out of the bathroom is... Well, it's kind of awkward. Dylan and Zoe are sat side by side across from Mandy at the breakfast counter talking about plans for the night. Dylan has his hands in his lap like they're glued there and his leg is jiggling up and down. Zoe has one hell of a bitch face on and is staring down at her coffee. And Mandy, well, Mandy seems to be trying to defuse the tension by talking about the party tonight.

Mickey shakes his head at them and pulls his hoody on. It hasn't snowed in a few days and the snow that is left behind has turned into grey-brown mush. The temperature is still low enough for him to feel a little cold when they forget to turn the central heating on. Which Dylan clearly has.

He zips up his hoody as he walks into the kitchen, rolling his eyes at the way Mandy and Zoe chatter about the party tonight and what they're going to wear. Mickey's always found it weird how Zoe gets about fifty times more girly whenever she's around Mandy and vice versa.

"I'm thinkin' the dress Mickey got me," Mandy says.

Mickey doesn't hear Zoe's response, supposing she simply nodded.

He pours milk into his bowl of Lucky Charms and smirks when he feels Dylan hug his waist from behind. "Gettin' a little preview of what Zoe got last night?" Mickey asks, voice too low for the girl in question to hear.

Dylan snorts unhappily and slaps Mickey's stomach. "Shut up, you know you're the only one for me, baby." His chin rests on Mickey's shoulder and he steals a bit of cereal. "But seriously, dude, she's a goddamn firecracker in the bedroom but, like, attentive at the same time. Y'know?" Dylan begins to absent-mindedly drum his fingers against Mickey's ribs and Mickey has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the way it tickles. "But now it ain't feelin' so good and I just... I'm so fuckin' gone," Dylan whispers and he sounds sort of scared.

With a squirm, Mickey gets out of Dylan's hold and leans back against the fridge, eating. "Whatever. Stop poutin'. It'll be fine, man," Mickey says with a mouthful. "Now go get your ass dressed so we can stock up on booze."

...

Lip calls whilst Dylan is putting the bags of alcohol and snacks into his Land Rovers boot. The car hardly ever gets used but it comes in handy at times.

"Hey," Mickey answers.

"Hey, happy new years eve, homo." Mickey can tell Lip said that with a smirk, the bastard.

"Fuck you, too."

Lip snorts. "That a come on? Anyway, I actually called for a reason." He pauses. "Uh, so d'you think you could talk to Ian when we get there?"

Mickey stops leaning against the door and gets into the car once Dylan is done. "You gonna tell me what about or should I guess?"

"Right, yeah." Mickey can hear Lip mumbling to himself but can't make out any words. "Just... just talk to him, okay? You guys have a lot in common, probably more than you'd think. Just talk."

Mickey sits completely still for a moment before sighing and slouching down in annoyance. "Fucks sake, Lip, what the hell you talkin' about? Sure, I'll talk to Ian, we'll probably talk anyway, but can you stop being so fuckin' vague?" He waves a hand at Dylan's concerned look. "_What_ do you want me to talk to him about?"

Lip makes an aggravated sound then shouts at Carl to stop hitting on some thirty year old. "Look, I can't really say. I know you and my brother get along well enough, but just try to talk. Introduce him to your boyfriend as well, okay?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mickey tells him okay and to fuck off before hanging up on him. He knows Dylan is about five seconds from asking him what that was all about and honestly, Mickey doesn't even know what to tell him.

...

"Did you guys get enough vodka?" Jake snorts whilst Mickey and Dylan unload the alcohol. He had arrived at the apartment whilst the two of them were still out and he's round to help sort everything for tonight.

Mickey knows he's going to have to discreetly get jake into his room so they can fuck because he's looking way too good for that not to happen in his tight black t-shirt and light skinny jeans. And shit, is Mickey's boyfriend (even he's saying it now) an actual twink?

"Well, Jakey boy, y'all can't seem to handle anything stronger, unlike us real Southern men." Dylan seems to have perked up since breakfast, getting excited all over again at the prospect of a party.

Jake laughs his cute little laugh and shakes his head and once Mickey has finished piling up the packs of chips and dip and Pringles and whatever shit Dylan decided to buy, he takes a hold of Jake's wrist and drags him to his room, ignoring Dylan's wolf-whistle.

Once there, Mickey falls back onto his bed with a sigh and beckons Jake over with a nod of his head. Jake bites his lip, smiling, and the crawls over to Mickey until he's settled between his parted legs. "Hi."

Mickey hums and slowly trails his hand up Jake's t-shirt. "Hm, you look good today," he mumbles into his neck before giving it a light kiss.

"You're just saying that 'cause you're horny." It's strange how despite only knowing each other for about two weeks and only having seen each other a handful of times they're already pretty comfortable with each other. Mickey doesn't feel like he has to pretend to be a really kind, considerate person when he's mainly a bit of an asshole and Jake is still his awkward self. It's kind of nice, Mickey thinks, to have someone who's like a friend that you can also fuck.

He shrugs, moving his face so that he can kiss Jake properly. "Not completely untrue, but you do look good." He's even got the whole compliment thing down.

Jake blushes a little and then kisses Mickey back, holding onto his cheeks and swiping his tongue against Mickey's bottom lip. When he pulls back Mickey goes a little cross-eyed trying to keep looking at his eyes. In the lighting they look even more yellow than they do usually and it intrigues Mickey to no end. "Well, you're having a party, so y'know, I wanted to dress up a little." Jake shifts slightly so that he can rest his cheek on Mickey's chest. "So Mandy was tellin' me that her guy and his family are coming up?"

"Yeah," Mickey mumbles against Jake's head. The horniness has begun to fade and now all he really wants is to nap with the weight of Jake on top of him. Seriously, he's turning into a fucking pussy.

"What about yours? I mean, I know that two outta three of your brothers are locked up and your mom passed on, but like, what about the other one? Or your dad? I know you said you don't see him but is he comin'?"

Mickey stares ahead and feels frozen. When Jake had asked about his family that time they first went out he'd made it vague: dead mom, crazy, stupid brothers, a pretty cool sister he'd protect no matter what and a dad he doesn't see. There's a reason Mickey didn't explain why he doesn't see his dad. Because even though Jake's life isn't perfect at all, it is nothing like what Mickey's was like, not even close really. And so maybe Jake might understand to a certain point but he isn't from where Mickey is from. Some things are totally a o-fucking-kay in South Side when anywhere else it's unthinkable. Jake would maybe say he gets it, be real kind about it, but ultimately he would judge, even just a bit, and Mickey doesn't want that inevitable judgement. Not from him.

"No," Mickey answers, leaving it at that.

**#**

"Mickey! Fuck, Mickey! Iggy! Someone wake the fuck up!"

Mickey's never been a heavy sleeper, gets woken up every time someone comes stumbling into the house drunk. He had ignored the knock that the door, but his sister fucking screaming her lungs out wakes him instantly. He grumbles to himself about "stupid bitch sisters" that "can't fucking shut up" as he leaves his bed. One of his hands is in his boxers when he gets to Mandy. She's leaning heavily against the front door, shaky and wide-eyed. The fact that she doesn't call Mickey a pig or tell him to scratch his balls in his own time has him curious.

She grabs his forearms and pulls him closer. "Holy shit, Mickey, look outside. Just - fuck, Iggy!" she screams - their brother sleeps like the dead so he has no clue why she's calling him.

"Fuck Mandy, you gotta scream right in my fuckin' ear?"

She opens the door again then stands back and... Mickey has seen a dead body before, of course he has, but that was different. None of them were his own fucking father. Shit. He's propped up against the railing of their porch, a gunshot wound to the chest - bullet probably went straight through the bastard's heart - and another to his stomach. The t-shirt he has on is almost completely soaked in his blood; he must have died not long ago because most of it still looks pretty fresh.

It's so morbid and fucking crazy that Mickey feels like he's about to laugh. He manages not to when he looks at Mandy's pale face. She doesn't need to look anymore and all she's doing is staring at the lifeless body of their dad, so he slams the door shut and gets a cigarette. He's a stress smoker, so fucking sue him.

Mandy is still near the door and Mickey calls her into the living room. Funny how she looks so small when she's the same height as him. "Did you touch him or anythin'?" he asks, aiming for casual.

She shakes her head.

He nods and rubs his thumb against his bottom lip a few times. "Alright," he sighs, taking a drag and blowing the smoke to the ceiling. He needs to wake up Iggy because he can't fucking deal with shit on his own.

With an order for Mandy to sit the fuck down and just breathe, he leaves for Iggy's room and pounds on the door before walking in and yanking the sheets from his brother's body. A few seconds are spent being thankful that his brother sleeps in boxers.

Iggy rubs the back of his hand against his nose and yawns. "Mickey?" he asks, squinting. "Wha' you doin', man?" he mumbles.

"It's dad. He's dead. On our fucking doorstep."

That has Iggy sitting bolt upright. "Jesus fuck, really?" At Mickey's nod, he gets up and races past Mickey. Mickey follows and sees him open the front door, stand there for a few seconds, then close it again. "Jesus," he sighs.

Mickey simply takes a few more drags of his cigarette and sits down beside Mandy. "Hey, calm down, alright?" he says to her. "Just calm down."

She loudly exhales and slumps back against the couch cushions. "I need some pot," she states and Mickey is in full agreement.

"Not now," Iggy says, "we don't need the pigs gettin' on our asses over a joint."

The police. Of fucking course they'd need to call the police, why is that shocking Mickey so much? It's not like the three of them could bury him in their backyard. Plus it's almost nine in the morning and it's summer. They need to move quick.

"Okay, so none of us say a fucking thing. Got it?" Iggy raises his eyebrows at them then lowers them, squinting. "Although, we haven't actually done anythin', right? Mandy woke up went to the door for?"

"Someone knocked."

And with that, it all makes sense to Mickey. It may have been almost two years since he saw his dad hiding money, but Mickey never forgot; he's known this day was coming but he wasn't expecting it.

Iggy squints at her. "Okay, okay, someone knocked. But still, all you did was the normal thing and answered. That ain't a felony as far as I can tell. Then you got Mickey and he got me and then we called 911. Jesus fuck, you guys got any clue who did this? 'Cause that isn't passed out after an overdose, that is fuckin' murder, like full on" - Mandy seems to be getting more distressed as Iggy goes on - "gunshot murder. With intent, probably even predeterm-"

"Alright! Christ, Iggy!" Mickey interrupts, nodding his head to Mandy.

Iggy catches on and shuts up. He reaches for whoever's phone it is on the coffee table (Mickey thinks it's probably Mandy's) and dials 911.

**#**

The Gallagher clan arrive at seven, all dressed in scarves and gloves with party clothes on underneath. Mickey's glad that he only has to see Mandy and Ian share a hug that could easily pass as platonic and not the two of them sucking face.

Also, it doesn't go totally unnoticed that Ian has bulked up a little since the last time Mickey saw him a few months ago, and that his hair has grown out a bit from his buzzcut. He looks good. But he looks good objectively because that's his own fucking sister's boyfriend and he has something similar and he's just not down with that. And then, you know, Ian's straighter than straight anyway.

Fiona gives him a hug then playfully shoves him, as does Jimmy, then Carl calls him a fairy before tackling Dylan and starting up a play fight, then he has an armful of ginger teenaged girl before, finally, Liam gives him a big smile with chocolate covered lips. A pretty standard Gallagher greeting.

Mickey joins Lip on the couch once Fiona begins to tell the room about her, Jimmy and Liam's plan to go to Times Square and how they aren't allowed to let Carl get paralytic or sleep with forty year old women. When Carl begins to retort, red-faced from the headlock Dylan has him in, in between the kitchen and the living area, Fiona holds up a hand to silence him and says, "Carl, I am not dealing with that again, hear me? Don't fuck forty year olds."

Mickey snorts and half listens to what else Fiona says. Though he's never voiced it, Mickey has always respected the hell out of Fiona for what she did and still does. Christ, he doesn't even want to think about what he'd have done if he was put in the same position.

The introductions with Jake are kind of awkward and it's obvious that Mandy has filled everyone in, telling them Mickey has a boyfriend. He's okay with it, whatever. Only he and Jake haven't actually said what they are and Mickey prefers it like that.

Lip gives him this weird little look when Ian starts talking to Jake and Mickey has no fucking idea what it means but he does remember Lip's earlier phone call and frowns.

"Still want me to have this talk with Ian?" he asks, taking the cigarette right from Lip's fingers.

Lip nods.

...

By nine, more people have arrived and because of Mandy's constant begging, Mickey changes into a nicer t-shirt without any holes in - grey, with a slight v-neck and tight but not like Jake's. He hates dressing up and doesn't let Mandy talk him into putting on slacks. Fuck that, this is his house.

Clive, who is still as intimidating as the day Mickey met him with his dark skin and huge, 6'4 frame and muscles bulging from his sleeves, helps Mickey move the couch slightly to the side, closer to Mandy's room then proceeds to tell Mickey about his daughter's latest antics. Mickey finds it weird how Clive goes from scary as hell bouncer to smiley-faced, loving dad in a matter of seconds.

When he catches Dylan waving him over, he excuses himself and goes to him. "What's up?"

Dylan shifts and looks around. "Zoe's avoidin' me like the goddamn plague, dude. I mean, how the hell doe she expect me to apologise or whatever it is she wants me to do if she won't get within ten frickin' feet of me?" Dylan's eyes are wide, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath he takes.

"Okay, first of all, calm the fuck down. I'm not your relationship... advisor or whatever. Ask Mandy or someone." Mickey doesn't mean to sound like he doesn't give a shit, it's just that it would be better for everyone if Dylan didn't ask for Mickey's advice because it would, without a doubt, only makes things worse. Mickey's pretty certain of that.

Dylan's eyes scan the room frantically before they find Mandy. She's wearing the dress Mickey got her with red heels to match the lace on it. She looks gorgeous and kind of like their mom on a good day. Mickey gulps down the rest of his beer and shoves Dylan in her direction.

There are two things Mickey doesn't ever do at parties: dance and let other people persuade him to dance. Karaoke is also never going to happen, but that has yet come up. Point is, when Jake comes up to him and wraps his arms around his neck, whispering in Mickey's ear to dance with him, Mickey sort of has to say no on principle alone.

Jake does this little pout thing and widens his glassy eyes. Well. Someone's a little drunk. Mickey rolls his eyes at him and flicks one of his nipple bars. "Don't pout, princess, I don't dance."

Jake steps even closer to Mickey, their faces now only a couple of inches apart. Mickey doesn't need to look around to know that people are looking. Maybe not everyone, but enough to make him uncomfortable; his friends are used to seeing Mickey getting with random guys and then leaving with them, not this couples shit.

He gives Jake a quick kiss hoping that that'll be enough. "Lemme go, I needa get a refill." He waves his empty beer bottle near to Jake's face.

With a little smile and another kiss, Jake lets him go, and joins Mandy and Debbie on the dancefloor. Mickey watches for a little while at the way Jake moves in time with the music, shifting his hips and bobbing his head. He snorts and goes to the kitchen to get another drink.

He's just poured out a single shot when Ian sidles up to him.

"Want one?" Mickey asks, pointing to his shot.

Ian does this weird nod/shrug thing so Mickey gets out another glass and pours.

Mickey grimaces as he slams his glass down onto the counter and Ian hisses a "fuck". He and Dylan got the good shit.

"So," Mickey says, leaning his back against the fridge, "your brother wants me to talk to you."

Ian sets down his glass beside Mickey's, leaning his hip against the counter. "Yeah?"

Mickey nods. "Mhm. Wouldn't tell me what about, though, was real fuckin' vague. Just said that we have more in common than I think?" Mickey shifts, the alphabet magnets digging into his back. "So what is it?"

Looking down at his feet, Ian shrugs. "What is what?"

"This thing or things we have in common. I mean, not to be a dick, but your brother is an asshole, he never beats around the bush about anythin', man. So. What is it?"

Mickey watches as Ian clenches one of his fists. "It's nothing. He's just - don't bother thinking about it, okay?" Ian looks him dead in the eye and it's such an intense moment that Mickey nods, mute. Ian looks away then, looks away at Lip on the other side of the apartment dragging Carl away from Clive's thirty-two year old wife. "I'll tell him to leave it." And then Ian's walking away and Mickey is left feeling completely out of the loop. Fuck, he doesn't even know what the loop is.

...

Yeah, so, Mickey is fucking drunk and he's at that good stage where he likes everything and everyone. He should probably stop drinking now if he doesn't want to get to the stage where he just turns into the prick he used to be. That's how he ends up fighting most of the time.

He's gone enough to not mind that Jake is cuddling up against him on the couch, mouthing at and kissing his neck. PDA isn't his thing, but he guesses he can forgive Jake because he's just as drunk as he is.

Jake starts to mumble out questions, like is Mickey happy that Jake is here and did he really want him here or not. Mickey sort of doesn't want to deal with Jake's drunken insecurities - Dylan's are enough - so he silences him with a kiss, languidly exploring Jake's mouth. It works well enough, Jake shuts up and kisses back, one hand fisted in Mickey's shirt. It starts to get a little obscene once Jake shifts to straddle Mickey's thighs and they start grinding against each other.

Mickey pulls back, smirking at Jake's whine of protest. "Go wait in my room," he whispers before taking Jake's earlobe between his teeth.

With only a few stumbling steps, Jake manages to walk across the apartment and into Mickey's room.

"Aren't you and lover boy just the cutest little gay boys," Lip says with that arrogant, pleased smile he wears almost constantly when pissing Mickey off. So whenever he's nearby.

Mickey stands. "Yeah, go fuck yourself," he mumbles.

Lip slaps him on the back as he passes, laughing. Absently, Mickey wonders if he's laughing at him, but that train of thought leaves his head nearly as quickly as it entered.

When he manages to open his fucking bedroom door after way too many attempts, he's greeted by Jake passed out on his stomach, sprawled across one side of the bed. Mickey would be pissed, probably should be, if he weren't so tired himself. They all counted down to the new year over three hours ago.

Mickey kicks off his jeans and collapses onto his bed. Jake doesn't even stir.

* * *

**Ugh, so, so sorry for taking so long - two weeks since I last updated and this probably isn't even worth the wait *sobs*. A philosophy exam and decorating my room got in the way of my writing time, unfortunately, but that won't be a problem anymore. Anyway, yeah, sorry guys.**


	6. Chapter 6

Mickey spends most of his day in bed with Jake getting over his hangover. It isn't too bad, there's only a slight pounding behind his eyes, but it's enough to have him feeling groggy and in the mood to do nothing but laze about. Jake, on the other hand, is suffering. Once Mickey felt awake enough to run a hand down his back at attempt to start something, Jake had groaned and burrowed his head under a pillow. Reluctantly, Mickey had gotten him a glass of water and some Advil. Jake had perked up some after that, only enough to fuck Mickey at a snail's pace a couple times and trade sloppy blowjobs, but sex is sex.

It's late afternoon when Mickey can't ignore the growling of his stomach for any longer and drags Jake out to the kitchen with him. They're both pretty gross: sweaty and smelling like sex. Mickey freezes when he sees the whole Gallagher family and Mandy sitting in the living area watching tv. He thinks that Lip, Debbie and Carl might have stayed the night, but his memories are real hazy.

None of them notice he and Jake, too wrapped up in... Jesus Christ, fucking Teen Mom! With a roll of his eyes Mickey walks to the kitchen with Jake following behind.

Jake's pouring milk into Mickey's Cheerios from across the breakfast counter when he says, "uh, I didn't, like - was I a mess last night?", staring down as Mickey's bowl begins to fill.

With a hand gesture, Mickey tells Jake to stop and then scoops a spoonful into his mouth. "Nah, not too bad." He swallows and then takes another spoonful. "Although," he continues, "you were askin' me if I wanted you here."

A slight blush spreads across Jake's cheeks. "Shit," he mutters. "I'm sorry, I just - I shouldn't drink. I get sorta clingy."

"No shit," Mickey snorts, but at Jake's look of embarrassment he knocks their feet together under the counter. "Chill out, you weren't really so bad."

Jake nods and picks up his spoon.

They sit there for quite some time, talking aimlessly and eating whatever Mickey can find in the cupboards and fridge that isn't alcohol. Mickey doesn't like how crowded his home is. For parties, sure, a crowded space is like a fucking necessity. But this isn't a party, this is him sitting down with his guy eating leftover Pringles. His home shouldn't feel so small when in reality it's too big. Mickey never used to know what to do with all the space he has in Dylan's apartment, but now that it's being swallowed up by the sounds of laughter and too many smiling faces, Mickey feels like he's suffocating.

**#**

All Mickey had wanted to do was to play some GTA and maybe get a little high. That doesn't fucking require Joey and Nicky bursting through the front door with their friend with the mohawk that he cuts himself and isn't even done right. Seriously, Mickey could've done a better job with a fucking blindfold on.

Nicky tells Mickey to get the fuck off the couch so that the three of them can play CoD and get drunk. At first Mickey just tells him to go fuck himself because his word isn't fucking final. And since when does turning twenty-one mean you have to become an even bigger dickhead than you were before? Because ever since Nicky's birthday he's been walking around like he's the fucking boss of everything just because he's the oldest of the kids. He's only five years older than Mickey, it isn't an achievement - just because their mom and dad fucked and had him first doesn't mean jack shit.

Mohawk guy walks through their house into the kitchen like he owns the place and then Mickey's arms are being grabbed hold of and his asshole brothers are all but lifting him off the couch.

"Hey, dumb fuck one and two, I have fuckin' legs!" he yells at them, kicking their shins just to prove his point.

Joey curses, letting go of Mickey to rub at his leg. Such a pussy.

Nicky gives him a shove but lets go. "Unless you have a stash of somethin' good, fuck off," he says.

With a snort at the way Nicky attempts to sound authoritative, Mickey gives him the finger and walks off into the kitchen. Yeah, he has a stash of just about everything and fuck no is he letting anyone else get their hands on it.

Mohawk guy is trying to balance two six-packs of beer and three plates of sandwiches whilst walking. And if Mickey were a little less of an asshole and not so pissed off, maybe he'd help. But he isn't, so he trips the guy up and steals one of the six-packs. Rushing past his brothers who are trying to get the X-box to work, Mickey clutches the beer to his chest and opens his room door.

Why is there some half-naked girl sat on his bed? Just - fucking why? This is his room, for fucks sake. Mickey stands in front of his door squinting at her. Shit.

"Hey Mick," she says, all low and sexy. Right.

Mickey nods at her. "Jade." Jesus, this is so awkward. It'd probably be less so if this wasn't the girl he'd fucked a week back after getting shit from Iggy about having a "dry spell". Mickey can see that she's hot: big tits and ass; caramel skin and wavy brown hair; plump lips and almond eyes. He knows that whenever she comes round his brothers fucking bow down to her feet yet get nothing for it. Trust her to get with the one brother who doesn't give shit about her cup size.

"Me and Mandy are getting ready to go out, so..." She gestures to her body with a little bite of her lip.

Mickey nods again and figures he may as well just go for broke here because he might get a blowjob out of it and Jade clearly likes him for whatever reason. He saunters up to his bed and watches the way Jade eyes his bare torso. "Where you goin'?" he asks once he's sat down beside her.

Jade opens her mouth to answer but then Joey's barging in and Mandy's walking out of the bathroom in just her underwear, and Jesus fucking Christ, Mickey can't take this.

Mandy starts screaming her head off whilst Jade attempts to cover up and Joey tries to argue back whilst ogling Jade. Mickey simples opens his legs so that Jade is between them and lies back, his hands covering his face.

Honestly, he can't remember a time when he's felt like his room is actually his. Nobody gives a shit that there's a door and ever since his lock broke it's just gotten worse. As for the rest of the house, well, Mickey tries his best to go out there as little as possible; he'll either see his dad attempting to cook some kind of drug or just giving up and taking everything he made, his brothers wrestling and breaking every damn thing in sight or fucking some girl with less dignity than clothes on her back or there'll be some impromptu party and his house will be so full it feels like it may actually burst.

He wonders what it'd be like to live alone, to be able to listen to nothing but silence. He snorts at the very idea.

**#**

Mickey overhears Fiona talking to Ian about she and the family staying in New York for a week before the kids go back to school (Jimmy's treat) and Lip has to go back to work. They're all staying at some hotel Mickey knows of, swanky as hell and just as pricey. Jimmy's treat indeed.

At least they aren't staying here, he thinks, thankful. There are way too many of them and he thinks they're okay people, most of them, most of the time, but that doesn't mean Mickey wants to _live_ with them for a whole week. Jesus, just an hour in their company has him feeling tired again.

With a soft kick to Jake's shin, Mickey says, "come on, lets go," with a nod towards his bedroom.

Looking impossibly innocent, Jake smiles shyly and bites his thumbnail, as if Mickey just ordered him to get it out right now and fuck him in front of an audience. "I don't know, shouldn't we stay out for a little while?" Jake looks over at the Gallaghers. "I mean, I barely got to speak to them last night and they all, y'know, they all seem cool. Wouldn't it be kinda rude to just - I don't wanna be rude and ignore them." He turns his head back toward Mickey and runs a hand through his hair, nervous. "Besides, we've been, uh, in the bedroom for most of the day."

Polite, Jake is so damn polite and considerate. It's often aimed at Mickey which is pretty good because if it weren't, this thing they have going would have been over just as soon as it began. So Jake doesn't complain that Mickey doesn't want to kiss and cuddle him very much outside of the bedroom, that he doesn't always say please and thank you and that when he asks something it's more like a demand. Jake is the kind of person that just accepts as much as he can, even if he wants more. He's kind of a pushover, a bit too nice, and it makes Mickey wonder how Jake isn't the one feeding his cousin's heroin addiction.

But Mickey isn't like that, never has been and probably never will. He's rough and ill-mannered; unapologetic for being such an asshole. He's a lot better than he used to be - he's a good friend, he thinks, doesn't upset Dylan or Zoe too badly that often. But Jake isn't really a friend, is he? So Mickey treats him like the people he's been friendly with and fucked. He doesn't treat him like a boyfriend, doesn't really know how he would. Because any guy Mickey's had sex with has never had any power over Mickey in any way; the majority of the time, Mickey's the one actually getting fucked, but he doesn't let them think for one moment that they're the one controlling the situation. Mickey plays by his rules or he doesn't play at all. Fucking simple as that.

And if Mickey loses that control, what then? What will people make of him? Will these guys think that he's there to be walked over? When he was younger, nothing was ever really his choice, so maybe Zoe was right when she told him that this is his way of making up for that.

And he knows that that isn't exactly a healthy attitude to have in a relationship - thank you Zoe, your psychology nonsense is actually catching on - and he and Jake are in one, no matter how unconventional it may appear. Mickey knows that there needs to be equality, that you need to be able to push and pull equally. And Mickey sort of thinks maybe he'd be on his way to changing a little if Jake weren't so passive, didn't just let Mickey grab hold of any and all control and boss him about. They can joke together and they can talk on equal terms, but when it comes down to it, Mickey has the last say. And he's a bastard because he takes advantage of it, fucking indulges in it.

So Mickey shrugs and says, "whatever, do what you want" and leaves, walking to his room and not feeling an ounce of guilt.

It's about three minutes later when Jake walks in with a fake scowl on his face. He's wearing a pair of Mickey's flannel pyjama pants and has two red, angry-looking hickeys on either side of his neck and Mickey has never felt like he's owned something so much in his life.

Jake flops onto the bed and puts himself between Mickey's open legs. "Decided to do you," he mumbles against Mickey's neck and Mickey chuckles at the lame line.

...

Mickey sees Jake a lot over the next few days. They either hang out at Mickey's apartment or Jake's and don't really do a lot that doesn't result in orgasms.

So it's fair to say that Mickey's in a good mood when he gets home after spending the night at Jake's. Even the sight of his sister and Ian snuggling together on the couch watching tv does nothing to piss him off.

He sits down on the end of the couch beside Mandy. "Where's Dylan?" he asks, looking around the empty apartment.

Mandy rolls her eyes and gives Mickey a cold look. "Fucking that girl he used to see." She spits the words out so fiercely that Ian rubs his hand over her shoulder. Visibly, she calms and Mickey thanks whatever God there might be that his sister isn't as bad-tempered as she used to be. "He's bein' such an asshole, Mickey, seriously. Can't you like, I don't know... do something."

Like what? What the fuck is he supposed to do? Dylan is a grown ass man who can do whatever he wants and Mickey isn't getting involved in his and Zoe's weird little mess. He just isn't. Not to mention that he thinks Zoe's the one who's kind of in the wrong. They all know that beneath his obnoxious, carefree mask, Dylan is just a big ball of insecurities. Yeah, he doesn't give a shit what anyone thinks of him, but the people he loves mean too much to him for him not to care _at all_ what they think. And right now, Zoe's avoidance is clearly making Dylan think that he isn't wanted and when Dylan feels shitty about himself he has sex. So that's what he's doing. Maybe if Zoe got off her high horse and took some of the advice she's always dishing out then Dylan wouldn't be "such an asshole".

Obviously Mickey doesn't say any of this because he doesn't want to start an argument. "Give 'em time," he says instead, "they'll figure it out."

Mandy hums unconvinced but says nothing back.

...

Later than evening when Mickey's showered and is cooking a stir fry, a tiny blonde wanders out of Dylan's room completely fucking naked. Mickey recognises her as being Dylan's ex from a few months ago. Her name, on the other hand, he can't even guess at.

Ian, who's leaning back against the fridge nursing a beer makes this weird noise in the back of his throat and when Mickey turns his head, he sees Ian's face: a mixture of confused and grossed out.

"You guys know where the can is?" she asks in a raspy voice that Mickey knows you only getting from sucking cock. She seems to be completely at ease with being naked in front of them and Mickey finds it weird as fuck.

He vaguely points at the bathroom door and turns back to Ian when she goes. "Y'know," he starts, licking soy sauce off his thumb, "you don't have to act like you're gonna hurl at the sight of a pair of tits that aren't Mandy's. I won't kill you for that."

Ian's laugh is uneasy, fake. "Yeah." He throws some chopped up vegetable into the wok then leans back again. "Who is she anyway?"

Mickey quickly stirs the noodles, chicken and vegetables. He's no cook but when he's making proper meals for people he at least wants them to be edible. "Dylan's ex. Fuck knows what her name is." He points at the soy sauce by Ian's hip and Ian passes it. "Surprised we haven't heard Dylan moanin' it," he mutters, more to himself than to Ian.

When Ian snorts then lets out this funny little chuckle, Mickey can't help the smile his mouth forms.

...

Just as Mickey starts serving up the food, Mandy walks in with Zoe. They'd gone out to see if Zoe's friend who cuts hair and whatever would give Mandy a job. Even though technically Mandy is still working in Chicago.

Normally the two of them walking through the front door would be no reason to cause tension, but the fact that Dylan and that blonde - him in just boxer shorts and her in a long t-shirt of Dylan's and (hopefully) underwear underneath - walk out of Dylan's room at the same time creates the most awkward stand-off ever.

Mickey and Ian share this panicked look from where they're stood in the kitchen. Mickey doesn't see this ending well. Zoe's a bitch, she knows it and owns it, but she's still a bitch. What Mickey can remember of the blonde, she's just as bad.

The face Dylan's pulling would be fucking hilarious in any other situation but now it's just pitiful.

"Hey Nicole, didn't know you and Dylan were back together," Zoe says in a completely fake sweet voice. Mickey has a couple seconds where he's convinced Zoe's going to follow that comment with a slap.

The blonde - Nicole - snorts and pats Dylan's chest. "Right. No, just no. Dylan was feeling lonely or somethin', booty called me."

Zoe's eyes flick to Dylan's for a moment before settling back on Nicole. "Typical Dylan," she giggles and her smile would look friendly to anyone who doesn't know her. Mickey, however, can see the venom in it. "Thinks sex will magically fix all his problems." Both she and Nicole laugh a little and it makes Mickey want to hit them.

"'Cause ignorin' the problem 'til it goes away seems to work real good for you, huh?" And Mickey hasn't actually ever heard Dylan sound like that, so fucking angry and on edge.

It kills the girls' laughter and seems to hit Zoe hard. She's staring at him and he's staring right back and if looks really could kill they'd both be lying dead on the floor.

Nicole mumbles something then goes back into Dylan's room and Mandy moves over to Ian and somehow Mickey is closer to Dylan now, stood in front of the window leading to the fire escape, casting a shadow across them both.

"It isn't the time for this," Zoe states, raising her eyebrows.

Dylan snorts, lolling his head back. "Yeah? So when is the fuckin' time? I know you're..." Dylan waves his hands around, thinking of what word to say next, "conflicted about all this, but can't you be a little less of a dick about it? Don't you get that you're not the only one in this situation? I fuckin' love you and you love me back and that's that!" He's almost right up in her face now, his eyes wide and wild.

"No," Zoe whispers, just loud enough for Mickey to hear. "There's so much more to consider. I can't lose you, Dylan, and if we break up, I will and then we all know that Mickey will stand by you and then I'll lose him too and I can't - I don't want that!" Zoe's eyes are quickly filling with unshed tears and it will never not completely unsettle Mickey to see her cry.

Dylan's hands land on her shoulders. "That ain't true! And who's to say we're gonna break up? Who's to say I don't put a ring on your finger and make you my wife?"

"So then you can just sleep with some girl when I need some time to think?" Zoe snaps. She pushes Dylan's hands away and scrubs at her face. "I know you've got your issues, Dylan, your insecurities-"

"Don't you fuckin' dare! I've got my issues? What the fuck about you? You couldn't even bring yourself to talk to me 'bout all this! You shove all that psychology bullshit down all our throats but you won't even try to do the same for yourself!"

Mickey wants to tell them to stop. He wants to stand between them and tell them they're idiots, that they're in love and they're scared shitless. He wants to tell them that this is a waste of time because they're fucking inevitable. Mickey does noting, though. He can't. His anxiety levels are rising with every shouted word that comes from their mouths and he just - he can't. Arguing isn't an issue for Mickey, not at all. Other people arguing? That shit messes with him. Makes him tense and uncomfortable, makes him feel like he can't escape - from where he doesn't know.

That's why once it becomes clear Dylan and Zoe aren't going to finish anytime soon, no matter how much Mandy tries to separate them, Mickey forgets the food he cooked, puts on his boots and parka and leaves. He slams the door and avoids the lift, all but sprinting down the stairs to the ground floor.

...

When he gets to Paul's bar he realises he has no intention to drink or get drunk. Still, he sits at the bar and waits for Paul to approach him.

"Who's done what?" Paul asks, perceptive as ever.

"Dylan and Zoe are - fuck, I don't even know."

Paul huffs a laugh, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes somehow not making him look old at all. "That boy," he drawls with an affectionate smile. "I'm bettin' he's been head over heels ever since they met. Always gettin' so worked up over 'er." Paul looks down at the bar with a sad smile. "Hell, at least they ain't pretendin' no more, huh?" Then he's walking away to serve a customer, leaving Mickey feeling a little better. Paul does that.

...

Mickey makes it back to the apartment after an hour, figures it'll will be safe now.

The light from the tv illuminates Mandy and Ian so that they look almost blue. Mickey watches them for a while and questions what makes him so different to his sister; how come she's gotten over their past and is able to actually be in a relationship? Mickey doesn't think it's simply because he's gay and she isn't because he's had years to get the fuck over it and in retrospect, he was never exactly disgusted about it, more scared shitless about what would happen to him if anyone found out. Sure, Mickey's never craved a relationship, but he never really thought it was possible and now that it is, he kind of likes it yet can't do it right. Maybe it's Jake, who fucking knows.

He's stops being a damn creeper and goes to his room and isn't shocked at all to find Dylan in his bed. He's often wondered what it'd be like if he and Dylan were together, if all the flirting and touching had a different meaning behind it. Dylan's good-looking, not really Mickey's type, but clearly attractive with his height and his hair and huge hands. But whenever Mickey's thought about it he's always hit with the feeling of wrong. Dylan is basically a brother to him as well as a best friend. Even if he is the biggest idiot Mickey knows.

Groggily, Dylan tells him to get his perky little ass in bed so that they can spoon. It says a lot about them that this isn't the first time that Dylan has demanded they spoon, not even close. Perhaps Mickey stripping down to a wife beater and his boxers to get into bed with Dylan without a moment's hesitation says more.

Dylan snuggles up behind Mickey with an arm over his waist. "Sorry 'bout earlier, dude, I know you hate it," he mumbles into Mickey's skin.

"S'kay."

"Not really." Dylan sighs, his breath tickling the hairs at the nape of Mickey's neck. "But she said sorry and I said it back and it isn't so crazy anymore. I still don't know where we're at, she still drives me insane but - we're not so bad."

Mickey barely even nods, the sound of Dylan's deep drawl working like a fucking lullaby.


	7. Chapter 7

The following week has Mickey stressed out beyond belief: two people get fired from Synergy (they were total pricks so Mickey was glad to see them go) and so his hours are increased; Dylan and Zoe continue to have "heated discussions, they aren't arguments, Mickey" - yeah, okay then, Zoe; Jake's classes start up again and he goes back to work at some bookstore Mickey's never heard of because he isn't some fucking hipster, therefore he can't even get laid that often; then he's roped (guilt-tripped) into doing tourist shit with Mandy and the Gallaghers before they all leave and Ian and Mandy begin to prepare to move in.

It's no surprise that come Saturday - strangely enough, Mickey's only day off this week - he's completely spent, wondering how his lungs are still functioning after the ridiculous amount of stress smoking he's been doing. That thought doesn't stop him from lighting up whilst he watches Breaking Bad, but it does cross his mind.

Cradled in one of Mickey's hands is the mosaic ash tray Dylan got him and wedged between his thighs he has his third can of Red Bull. The apartment is otherwise empty and it's the first time in a long while, too long.

On his phone there's a notification telling him he has one unread message and a missed call, both from Jake. He's not ignoring or avoiding Jake so much as he's enjoying some alone time. Which, last he heard, is fucking healthy, so that's that.

He slouches further down until he's nestled comfortably in the cushions at his back and sides then checks the time on his phone. It's only four o'clock; Mickey figures he has maybe a couple more hours before Dylan gets back from some family thing he had to go to.

But then the front door is being opened and Mickey is about to yell out some sarcastic remark before he sees Zoe walk in with Jake following behind her. It takes Mickey a couple seconds too long to remember that Zoe actually has a key.

A slight awkwardness lingers even after Zoe tells him that she forgot her purse the last time she was here, hence why she's back. Mickey still doesn't know if her and Dylan are on speaking terms, he doesn't really know what the fuck is going on if he's completely honest, meaning he also doesn't know where he stands with her because they all know that his loyalties would lie with Dylan if it came down to that.

Also, why is Jake here? "The fuck you doin' here, man?" Mickey asks, probably a little too gruff but whatever, as Jake comes over to him. They share a brief kiss before Jake sits down beside him.

"Me and Zoe are going out shopping," he replies, simple as that.

So apparently there are a lot of things Mickey doesn't know at the moment because when did Jake becomes friends with Zoe? Like, friendly enough that they go out shopping together?

Mickey just nods and takes a long drag from his cigarette.

"Y'know," Jake starts, shifting even closer to Mickey's side, his jumper soft against Mickey's bare arm, "those things'll kill you." He's doing that thing again: making a smartass comment with a genuine smile on his face. Like God forbid he even gets close to upsetting Mickey, right?

"'Cause the warnin' on every fucking pack I smoke don't tell me that," Mickey snaps, sarcastic.

He feels Jake deflate beside him but he can't be fucked to make nice right now. Really, he knows he's being a dick, overreacting, but he wants to be left alone. It's nothing personal to any of the people around him, but this last week has been filled with faces from Mickey's past, too many faces, and he just needs his own space. It's like an actual craving he gets; if he and Dylan and Zoe and their friends hang out a lot in the week or go to a lot of parties, he needs a day or two to just be. He doesn't know why, just does.

Zoe finds her purse behind the beanbag and sighs happily when she holds it out to Jake with a smile. "Right, you ready?" she asks, straightening out her leather jacket and checking her Docs for scuff marks.

"Yep." Jake gently puts a hand to Mickey's thigh then kisses him, slow and sweet. "Sorry," he mumbles against Mickey's lips before he kisses him again.

Mickey is acutely aware that Zoe's staring at them, at the blatant PDA, and Mickey has to force himself not push Jake away. "Yeah, whatever, man." He draws his head back and focuses back on the tv.

Jake stands, leaving, and at Zoe's bitch face Mickey responds by giving her the finger.

...

Later, when Jake and Zoe come back from shopping, Jake lets Mickey fuck his mouth and it isn't enough to perk Mickey up, but he does come sort of ridiculously hard - he has no complaints.

He doesn't return the favour because he's intent on being an ass today and goes back out into the living room. Jake comes out to join him; his face is flushed a pretty shade of pink and Mickey wants to scream but he doesn't know why.

They settle down together, Jake clearly keeping his distance at the other side of the couch and nervously fiddling with his sleeves. Guilt overwhelms Mickey for a moment when he looks at him staring at the tv with fake interest. Jake is just so nice, too nice - a level that Mickey doesn't deserve and doesn't really know how to deal with. Sometimes it's pretty good, to have someone be so easy, but most of the time it's annoying and completely foreign. Mickey's never known someone like Jake, and whenever he met someone like him in passing, he didn't get to know them or anything like that. In fact, Mickey would stay away from them on principle - if they didn't have the balls to say what they wanted, maybe upset some people, Mickey didn't want to know.

But still, he nudges Jake's thigh with his socked foot and mutters, "get over here, idiot", with a smile he doesn't mean to smile.

Jake runs a hand through his hair and rolls his eyes half-heartedly before shuffling close to Mickey, crossing his legs so that one of his knees rests on Mickey's legs.

So perhaps Jake is too much of a good guy and Mickey isn't enough of one, but right now he's comfortable and sated and watching tv and it's not too much of a hardship.

...

A few days later Mickey's boss hires two new replacements and he gets three days off in a row - it really pays off that his best friend's dad owns the bar he works at because Mickey can usually choose what days he works as long as he works the hours he's supposed to. It's a pretty sweet deal.

Jake chuckles and calls him a lucky bastard with a grin on his face after Mickey tells him.

They're both naked and under Mickey's duvet that really needs a wash and Jake has a class in an hour and Mickey still hasn't cleared out what will be Mandy and Ian's room. He should probably get on that seeing as their stuff, and themselves, are scheduled to arrive later today.

Jake latches his mouth over a hickey he gave Mickey earlier, smiling into his skin. "Maybe whilst you have a million days off-"

"Three."

"Uh, whatever, that's pretty much a million in my books. Anyway, we should go out." Jake's resting his chin on the hands he has over Mickey's chest. The way he's looking up through his lashes makes him appear too innocent for someone who's just had sex.

"Go out?" Mickey knows what Jake is getting at; guy's been hinting at it for the past week.

Jake shrugs. "Yeah, like, um, well - we're dating but we've never been on any actual, y'know, dates."

Mickey would like to tell Jake that he took him to Paul's bar a few times when they first knew each other but he can't be bothered to argue and he reckons Jake would find some way to make that not count. "Why'd you wanna go out," Mickey starts, "when we can stay in the warm and fuck?"

Faceplanting onto Mickey's stomach, Jake giggles. "Why don't we go out to dinner or... see a movie?" A few silent moments pass where Mickey can feel the warmth of Jake breathing against his skin. "Y'know... if you're embarrassed of me..." he trails off with a smirk.

Mickey groans and hauls Jake up to kiss him silent. "Such a dumbass," he mutters against Jake's lips because that's easier than explaining that Mickey doesn't do dates.

...

It's actually really helpful to have Zoe sit on the couch stuffing her face with a whole pack of Oreos whilst Mickey and Ian attempt to haul a shelf through the apartment door. Really - so fucking helpful.

"Yeah, just sit on your fuckin' ass," Mickey rants, "not like we need your help at all."

Zoe just rolls her eyes and turns the volume up on the tv like the bitch she is.

The scoff Ian lets out sort of wavers as he strains to shift the shelf with Mickey so that it doesn't knock down the entertainment centre. Dylan and Mandy leave her room after they carried up some drawers and both rush over to help with the shelf.

They've managed to get it inside the apartment and they're weaving their way round the couch when Dylan speaks. "Hey, why you eatin' Oreos, babe?" Apparently he and Zoe are back to the petnames - wondering how long that'll last, Mickey rolls his eyes.

"Is there a rule or something where I'm not allowed to eat Oreos?" Zoe snaps.

All four of them share a look because oh great, Zoe's pissy today.

Attempting to keep her calm, Dylan hurriedly says, "no, no, course not, but you don't actually like 'em." He's now trying to tie his hair back one-handed whilst still holding onto the shelf. Ian laughs quietly at the sight of him and Mickey gives in to how contagious it is.

They're both laughing outright when Dylan gets frustrated as his hair keeps falling into his face and Zoe mutters out, "whatever, I just feel like it."

It takes another few minutes for them to get the shelf situated beside the door, opposite to the bed - the one that was already there because according to Mandy it's much nicer than their one at home. Dylan shrugs off his black and red plaid shirt so that he's only in his black wife-beater and Mandy rolls up the sleeves of her dark purple top.

With a loud inhale, Ian looks around the room. "That's all the furniture, right Mandy?"

"Um... yep. Now we just need to bring in our clothes and shit." It's more of a tired mumble than anything else. Mandy's settled on the bed and with a sigh she falls backwards, her black hair spreading out like wings.

Ian eyes her for a second then turns to Mickey. "Mind giving me a hand?"

Mickey shrugs, says, "sure".

Dylan moves to stand between them and puts a hand on one of their shoulders. "Y'all do that, I'mma attempt to tame the beast." He taps their shoulders and they both watch as Dylan sneaks up on Zoe then jumps over the back of the couch and nearly lands on her. She jumps then punches Dylan in the chest whilst he laughs and tries to stop her. Apparently kissing is a way to "tame the beast."

It's really not Mickey's fault that he stares at the way Ian's muscles flex when he lifts two boxes labelled 'Ian's shit', one on top of the other out from the van. The weather is warm for the middle of January and Ian's only wearing a thin, grey t-shirt. So Mickey stares a little longer than he should whilst he follows Ian up the stairs with two boxes labelled 'Mandy's shit'.

...

By the time everything has been moved into the room and has been put away it's nearing ten at night and Mickey feels ready to collapse. Dylan, Zoe and Mandy are sat on the couch watching a CSI marathon when Mickey wonders out of the bathroom not even bothering to put on a t-shirt with his sweats.

Mickey brings over the beanbag and drops down onto it gracelessly, watching as Ian pays the pizza delivery guy then wanders over with the boxes.

Getting a whole large pizza with pineapple was clearly a strategic move by Mandy and Zoe seeing as they're the only ones who eat the shit. Mickey grumbles at them, shoving half of his slice of Margherita in his mouth in one bite.

The way Dylan and Zoe are sat almost on each other laps and the way Mandy fiddles with a fraying seam on Ian's jeans is almost sickeningly sweet and Mickey looks away quickly. He's used to being around couples; most of his other friends are all happily paired up. But this is just right fucking there, right in his face, in his home, and he's thinking maybe he should've thought a little more about what it would be like to live with Mandy and her boyfriend.

"Hey, Mickey, where's Jake tonight?" Zoe asks, as if she was able to hear what Mickey was just thinking. Honestly, he wouldn't put it past her.

Mickey shrugs, says, "at his place, probably, why?"

"Just wondering," she says with that fake smile of hers. "Maybe after this you can take him out. You have a few days off, you guys should do something."

The first thought Mickey has is that Jake has set this up, has got Zoe - one of the only people that can get Mickey to do something he doesn't want to do - to try to persuade him to take him out on a fucking date. He asks her if he did, if Jake's been bitching to her.

She scoffs. "No, Mickey, I just know how relationships work." Mickey very pointedly looks between her and Dylan, ignoring Dylan's middle finger. "Whatever," she says, dismissive, "just take him out, it's what everybody in relationships occasionally does."

More than anything, Mickey wants to argue, tell her that he isn't everybody and that if it's such a big deal to Jake then maybe he should leave Mickey. He wants to tell her that it's nobody's buisness but his own and so fuck her for bringing it up. But mostly Mickey wants to make Ian and Mandy and Dylan stop looking at him like he's some kid riding a bike without training wheels for the first time; supportive but amused.

So he sighs and abruptly stands. "Fuck sake, fucking fine!" He hurries towards his room, not looking at the shocked faces that follow his movement. He puts on a more decent pair of grey sweats, a henley and his parka then, begrudgingly, a pair of Vans Dylan bought him. He pockets his phone, wallet, a pack of smokes and his lighter, muttering under his breath as he does.

Zoe is looking like the cat who got the fucking cream when he steps out and he tells her to go fuck herself before slamming the front door shut behind him and leaving.

...

Jake's already sat at the bar when Mickey get's to Paul's. He's aware that it's not exactly a place for a date or whatever the hell this is, but he's hardly dressed for anything better and he actually doesn't give a shit anyway.

With a sigh, Mickey sits at the stool beside Jake and takes a long swig of the beer Paul just placed there.

"Jesus, son, you feelin' okay?" Paul asks, laughter and concern mingled together in his voice.

Mickey nods, settles the beer back down. Noticing Paul's inquisitive look at Jake, Mickey speaks. "Jake this is Paul and - this is actually his bar."

"Oh, I never knew," Jake states, holding out a hand. "Good to meet you, I'm Jake, Mickey's-"

"Friend," Mickey interrupts, careful not to sound too insistent, "Jake's a new friend of mine - well, all of our's actually."

Seemingly none the wiser about the reasoning behind Mickey's interruption, Paul takes hold of Jake's hand and shakes it firmly with that friendly, familiar smile on his face. "Well a friend of Mickey's is a friend o' mine, pleasure to meet you, kid."

As soon as Paul is out of earshot, Jake turns on his stool to face Mickey. "Are you okay? You seem kind of, I don't know, on edge?"

Mickey roughly runs a hand down his face then unzips his coat. "Fine, I'm - just, I'm okay." That sounds like bullshit even to his own ears.

Jake nods, running a hand through his hair. It's quiet between them for a few long moments; awkward and tense. Jake keeps nervously tapping the side of his glass and it's slowly driving Mickey crazy.

Then, out of the blue, Jake whispers, "I thought you were out."

Mickey frowns at him, confused, before it clicks. "Sorta am. Not to Paul, though and I don't go around... paradin' it or throwin' it in peoples' faces."

"It isn't anything to be ashamed or embarrassed-"

"You can stop right there, alright? I already got the speech a million times, don't need to hear it again. I ain't ashamed or any of that bullshit. I just don't want Paul to know. End of." Mickey finishes the rest of his beer then asks Kelly for another.

"How come? 'Cause he's like, Southern?" Jake asks. "They're not all gaybashers, y'know." Like Mickey actually said he thinks they are.

Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose and hopes Jake will just leave it. "No," he gets out through gritted teeth, "I know that. I don't want him to know and so so he doesn't. That's fuckin' it, man."

Thankfully, Jake doesn't say another word, doesn't bring it up again. Mickey doesn't know how he'd be able to explain why he doesn't want Paul to know and he doesn't want to. Because the truth is Mickey can't risk Paul being let down by him or disgusted or whatever. Paul is like the dad Mickey never had and even though he didn't care much for his own dad, knowing that if he knew he'd be so angry that he'd beat Mickey senseless left him feeling like shit. But Paul? Paul is the dad Mickey wishes he'd had because he just gets it but won't take any of Mickey's shit; he calls him 'son' and pats him on the back and has even hugged him a few times; Paul is open and kind and genuine. Mickey doesn't know if he'd still be the same once he knew. And yeah, Mickey knows that just because someone is Southern doesn't make them a homophobe, that they can be found anywhere, but half of Dylan's family despise him because he's gay - it shouldn't be enough to worry him but it is.

People rarely react to news like you want them to. Rarer still do they react in a way that completely shocks you.

**#**

Mickey's nineteen and he's fucking horny as hell. Maybe that isn't a good enough excuse for why he's got his fuck buddy in bed with him in the middle of the day, but he has so whatever. The house is empty and silent except for the loud moans and grunts coming from Danny and himself.

Danny's a pretty decent lay, knows exactly what he's doing and how to do it just right: he gives head like a hustler and fucks like a porn star. Mickey can't exactly complain and right now, with his face smushed against his pillow and his ass in the air, he probably wouldn't be able to anyway.

And Mickey would have heard it - he's completely sure he would have fucking heard it straight away - but Danny had reached around to jerk him off and starting whispering fucking filth in his ear that turns him on more than he'd ever admit and so he missed the front door opening and closing and didn't know that Iggy just got home until he hears, "what the fuck?"

Danny flies off of him and trips whilst Iggy drags him away, still attempting to put on his boxers. Mickey's quick to cover himself like Iggy hasn't seen him naked before; like if he covers up then it won't be obvious that he was just getting fucked by some guy. He's too busy freaking the fuck out to realise that Iggy has his skinny forearm pressed up against Danny's windpipe, caging him in against the wall. He's screaming in his face about goddamn rape and that if he wants an ass to fuck he can go out and pay someone not force himself on his brother.

Now Mickey is a lot of things, but he isn't the type of person to let someone be accused of rape when it sure as hell was more than consensual. "Iggy!" he shouts over Danny's protests. "Iggy, fuckin' let go of him, man, he didn't rape me," he states, head in his sweaty hands.

He hears more than sees that Iggy let's go of Danny: a muttered curse and then a loud gasp for air. Mickey throws Danny's clothes and shoes at him, tells him to just leave.

It's unnervingly quiet after that and Mickey can't bear to look up to face Iggy.

"Mickey," Iggy sighs. "Jesus fuck, what the hell was that?" He's pacing beside Mickey's shitty old couch; back and forth, back and forth.

Seeing as he's be sneaking around with guys for a few years, Mickey should be better prepared for this, he should have some sort of excuse - just something to say. He knew that he'd get caught one day, that it was simply a matter of time, but whenever he though about it he felt fucking to sick to his stomach and would stop. And what is he supposed to say? What could he say that would clear up this clusterfuck? Iggy's seen some pretty damn obvious evidence that he's gay; he can't claim to be straight now. And all he can think about is he how he's as good as dead.

Iggy stops pacing and shoves his hands into his pockets. He's looking at Mickey now. Staring. Assesing. Probably checking if Mickey looks more like a fag now that he knows he is one.

For a brief moment Mickey looks up at him and is surprised that Iggy doesn't look away or spit at him or some shit. Just keeps looking. "Shit, man," Mickey groans, "stop fuckin' staring at me."

"Little hard not to," he says simply. "I mean, Jesus, I just saw you gettin'-" he breaks off and, to Mickey's surprise, barks out a laugh. "I saw you gettin' it up - up the ass," he says through his laughter.

Mickey stares at him, brows furrowed and mouth hanging open. He can't tell if Iggy finds this all too amusing to deal with or if he's laughing because he's so angry and is two seconds away from going apeshit on his ass. The latter sounds more realistic. Finally Mickey's self-preservation instincts kick in and he pulls on his boxers then dashes into the bathroom, locking the door behind him and sitting on the dirty floor against it.

"Mickey! Are you serious?" The sound of a fist pounding against the door echoes around the small room. "Jesus - Mickey open the fucking door, what are you, twelve?"

"Look, I ain't in the mood to fight!" Mickey yells back. "So run the fuck along and tell dad so he can come in here and kill me himself!" He knows he sounds a little dramatic but his heart feels like it may actually fucking burst in his chest and, fuck, he doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to die and - and fuck, he can't breathe and-

"Mickey! I ain't gonna get dad, man. If I wanted you dead he'd be here by now." That isn't actually as comforting to Mickey as he thinks it's supposed to be. "So you're a - you like guys," he says in a much quieter voice, "and maybe that's really sorta gross but Jesus fuck, man, it's not... such a big deal."

Mickey chokes on a bitter, humorless laugh. "Right, yeah. Of course," he snaps.

"Nah, for real. Tons of guys take it up the ass, right? Not even just queers, y'know? TJ, you know TJ, right? Anyways, he let his girl fuck him with a dildo man and he fuckin' loved it, couldn't stop talking about it." It's silent for a while and Mickey can breathe easier. "What I'm trying to say is that I guess I don't give a shit 'cause if I had to choose between you, being a queer an' all, or Nicky and Joey, I'd pick you. Christ I sound like a girl, maybe your gay is catching."

"Hey, fuck you," Mickey says but it's lighthearted.

"So stop acting dumb, get your fucked ass out here and play CoD with me."

Mickey listens to the sound of Iggy walking away before he opens the bathroom door and goes back into his room. He seriously considers packing up and leaving, maybe getting Iggy to go out so that he can get the money from the floorboards and leave. But Iggy didn't sound like he was bullshitting and he can't lie to save his fucking life.

Mickey puts on a t-shirt and joins his brother.

**#**

When Mickey gets home only an hour after leaving he ignores Zoe's questions and Dylan's sarcastic comments and heads straight for his room. He strips down to his underwear and gets under his duvet.

He stares up at his ceiling and thinks about Jake and nothing happens. That feeling that Dylan always tries to explain when he's talking about Zoe isn't one that Mickey feels when he thinks about Jake or even when he sees him. Mickey thinks about love and what it means and whether it's worth it because he's seen what it's done to Dylan, how it's broken him down and left him empty. But he's also seen how fucking happy Dylan is when he and Zoe are together; the way Dylan's face softens and his eyes widen whenever he looks at her like he can't believe he has her.

Mickey stays up half the night just thinking before he falls asleep smiling but not because of Jake.

* * *

**Guh, how cute where Mickey and Ian playfighting and getting all jealous? It's too much and now we have to wait two fucking weeks before the next episode which is just unnaccepatble, really. **


	8. Chapter 8

Mickey knows he can't stay with Jake. He _knows_ that. Therefore he doesn't need Zoe giving him one of her fucking speeches about stringing people along and breaking hearts and all this other bullshit that makes Mickey feel like he's in a goddamn rom-com.

"I'm serious, Mickey," she says as she pours a seriously disgusting amount of syrup over her pancakes and then her toast. Which is actually just fucking wrong. "Besides, I don't think it'll even come as such a huge surprise to him; lately he's been thinking that the two of you aren't really all that good together." She takes a massive bite of her toast and some of the syrup dribbles down her chin. With a huff she scrubs it off with the sleeve of Dylan's plaid shirt that she's wearing.

"Coulda told me this," Mickey complains, even though he's glad that Jake hasn't because serious conversations aren't something he enjoys. Even if Jake had brought it up he knows he'd find some way to change the subject. Or simply refuse to speak.

Humming non-commitedly, Zoe shrugs. "Well it's practically public knowledge that you're more than a little emotionally constipated. You hate talking about feelings and whatnot, Jake knows that and he's too nice to do something that may annoy you."

Mickey stares down at the writing on Zoe's wrist. It's on the opposite arm to the one she has tattooed and it looks like it's been done by a Sharpie. "You gettin' another?" Mickey asks, nodding at her wrist. It's a pretty smart move on his part: Zoe can't resist talking about future tattoos.

"Yeah. Sapientia. It means wisdom in Latin." For a moment she traces it slowly with a finger. "I'll probably do it myself at the shop before I open up. Wanna come?" She's smirking now and he knows it's because she's well aware of Mickey's (slight) fascination with tattoos. Knowing her, she'll probably try to persuade him to get another again like she always does.

Taking a large sip of his coffee, Mickey nods. He's actually been considering getting another tattoo for a while now, but he doesn't know what. His knuckle tattoos are hardly meaningful and he was high off his ass when got them done; the random little smiley face he has on his forearm is identical to the one Dylan has and they got them only because they lost a bet to a friend. He doesn't know what he'd get when it's his choice and he's sober.

With a loud yawn Ian comes shuffling out of his room topless and sleep ruffled.

"Morning," Zoe says. "Coffee?"

Ian shoulders slump and he smiles. "God yes," he sighs. He sits beside Mickey at the counter and yawns again.

Every couple of seconds Ian shifts and his bare arm rubs against Mickey's and Mickey really wishes he'd put on a t-shirt before he left his room. It's a completely innocent sort of touch so Mickey needs to get his mind out of the fucking gutter. Christ.

"Do you wanna come with me and Mickey to watch me tattoo myself?" Zoe asks Ian as she continues to stuff her face and flip through a magazine that's about a month old.

Ian's look of confusion slowly changes to one of understanding. Mickey reckons he forgot that Zoe works at both Synergy and her friend's tattoo place and is actually legally allowed to tattoo. Not that that stopped her before. "Thanks, but I've gotta go down to the gym and set stuff up."

"Oh right, yeah. Completely forgot about your new job." Zoe rolls her eyes at herself. "Nervous?"

With a half shrug Ian chuckles quietly. "A bit, I guess. But it's - the job is much better than my old one and I'm gonna get paid so much more for doing half as much as I used to. The nerves are worth it."

Zoe hums happily and what, is she some teacher happy with her student's answer to a question? Mickey hides his laughter with a fake cough into his fist and gets up to put his mug in the sink just as Dylan starts shouting for Zoe to come back to bed.

She hands Mickey her plate and he scowls down at it. "Hey," he catches Zoe's wrist, "tell your dick of a boyfriend that the rainbow jokes are fuckin' stupid as shit." Zoe stares blankly at him, her perfectly plucked eyebrows raised in question. "This," Mickey begins, holding up the rainbow coloured plate that has Mickey's name written on it in bold, black letters, "is not funny." He enunciates slowly and waves the plate around for emphasis when really all he wants to do is maybe smash some of Dylan's beloved fucking china just to make him throw a fit.

"As childish as it is, it's a little funny." Condescendingly, Zoe pats his cheek then goes back into Dylan's room. Either she ignores Mickey's comment of "fucking bitch" or doesn't hear it because she doesn't even flinch.

Sighing, Mickey drops the plate into the sink. Some days he really can't be fucked to deal with Dylan's shit. Today is one of those days. A snort of laughter has Mickey swinging around to face Ian who's biting his lip and smiling at the same time. He looks demented.

"Sorry, you just - I've never met someone who gets so tense over a plate," he says solemnly before snorting again.

Mickey laughs sarcastically then flips him off. He takes the two mugs that have had the same treatment as the plate and waves them in Ian's direction with raised brows.

"Oh, it's mugs, too? Totally justified then," he says sarcastically and Mickey can't help the surprised, stupid little giggle he lets out.

...

Needle and Thread Tattoos still looks as shifty as it always has. Mickey's only been inside a few times and each time he's found something that weirds him out. Like right now he's staring at a photo of some guy's ass that has the words 'keep out' tattooed on it. And Mickey thinks that if someone really wanted to fuck him up the ass a tattoo saying not to wouldn't really do much.

Zoe is sat on one of the red leather chairs round the back, cleaning up and bandaging her freshly done tattoo. She'd asked Mickey over and over if he was going to get one and he's finally caved and said yeah. So now he has to decide what to actually get.

Most of the pictures displayed on the walls are of sleeves or really big thigh or back pieces and he isn't interested in getting anything like that so he gets out Zoe and Natt's portfolios and flips through them. It's clear that Natt specialises in the bigger, less intricate pieces and that Zoe's better at the opposite. Where Natt has big photos of pin-up girls and basic tribal patterns, Zoe has portraits of peoples' faces and sleeves full of different little images and designs. Mickey doesn't want something huge but he wants it to be simple, uncomplicated. Annoyed, he thinks how much easier it is for girls to get tattoos that are small and don't mean anything; how it looks cute or whatever but really camp on guys. Like Mickey knows he couldn't pull of a random little star on his wrist like the girl in the photo he's frowning at. Not that he wants a star, but the point still remains.

"It's difficult, isn't it?" Zoe asks out of nowhere, startling Mickey.

He turns to face her and rests the portfolios on the cluttered front desk. "I guess." He looks over all of Zoe's tattoos that he can see - which is almost all of them thanks to the denim shorts and black vest. The girl is going to get hypothermia one day and Mickey will be there to tell her he told her so. Practically all of Zoe's tattoos have some meaning behind them: the antlers on her thigh are for her dead granddad who loved to hunt; the Russian dolls and four-leafed clover on her sleeve are for her heritage and the big hand holding a dream catcher is to signify how fucking sappy she can be about holding onto your hopes for the future and her interest in the psychological side of dreams, the cartoon cat has no meaning at all; "One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful" is on the inside of her bicep because she has a huge boner for Freud; the heart on her ankle is the same as the one her best friend has. Basically, Mickey feels sort of like an idiot for not being able to think of a tattoo he wants.

"Mind if I suggest something?" Zoe clambers around behind the desk, cursing when she bashes her wrist, before dropping a sketchpad atop it. "I'm going to anyway, regardless."

Mickey nods, mute and watches as she starts drawing. First she draws a triangle with one of the sides thicker than the other and inside of it is what he thinks is the symbol for infinity. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"The triangle is a letter in the Greek alphabet - delta - and it's mainly used in math and science to signify change of a variable quantity etc, and this thing is-"

"Infinity, I fuckin' know that."

"Okay, don't get bitchy. So we have change and infinity. Infinite change, always changing. I think that's relevant for you. You craved a change of life back in Chicago, you wanted to change the kind of person you were, too. Now you live in New York and you don't commit a crime every other day and you're happy but you're still changing; everybody is always changing. But... for you I think that change is both important and scary. Plus it's good to have something to remind you of how you've changed, keep it positive. Significant." She exhales loudly, her chest pushing out, and taps her fingers on the drawing. "Any thoughts?"

It makes sense. It makes a lot of sense - to have something like that on him, a reminder, a fact, a fucking hope. Plus it looks pretty cool. It's simple but not girly at all. "Yeah," Mickey says, "let's do it."

Zoe beams and drags him over to the chair. "Wait." She stops abruptly and looks him over critically. It makes Mickey nervous. "I think the inside of your bicep. Easy to hide and easy to show off."

What Mickey failed to realise was that once Zoe had him sat down and the needle in his arm, he would practically be at her mercy and would have to listen to her start ranting about him and Jake yet again for nearly an hour. Something more painful than the fucking tattoo.

...

"Shoulda got a multi-coloured flag" is Dylan's response to Mickey's tattoo. And Mickey just knows that when everyone else gets back home he's going to repeat it in the hope that it'll get a laugh. Regular fucking comedian.

Mickey doesn't say anything back and goes into his room to put away all of the after care shit. It's no surprise that Dylan follows him.

"You and Jake, huh?" Dylan is nothing if not subtle. Clearly.

Mickey collapses back onto his bed and eyes Dylan who's leaning way too casually against the doorframe for it to really be casual. "Zoe got you doin' this?" Mickey asks with a smirk. "Shit, she got you wrapped round her finger in no time," he teases, laughter spilling from him as Dylan pounces.

But Mickey is about fifty times stronger than Dylan will ever be despite his protests that the Southern man reigns superior. "Yeah," Mickey drawls, "you're lookin' real superior in this headlock."

Dylan wheezes and then starts fucking slobbering all over any part of Mickey's arm he can reach. With a hard shove, Mickey releases him. "Yeah, bitch," Dylan laughs, croaky, "I play dirty." He sprawls back against Mickey's bed. "Now, ready to have a conversation like the mature adult you wish you were?"

With a frown, Mickey shakes his head then lies back beside Dylan. They stay like that for several minutes, neither of them talk yet the silence is comfortable.

"Y'know," Dylan says softly, "I'm happy if you're happy, dude. Jake, he's good an' all but he's not really for you. That's okay, s'all good." He pats Mickey's thigh. "Happy if you're happy."

The front door opens and a voice sounding a lot like Ian's echoes through the apartment. "Hey! Anyone here?"

Dylan shouts back that they're in Mickey's bedroom and to come join them for some bro moments. Punching his arm, Mickey mentally berates him. He doesn't want to talk about this with Ian or even with the guy in the room. It's not a trust thing; Ian knows Mickey's gay and has kept his mouth shut, proving he's at least a little trustworthy. But for whatever reason, just thinking about talking about Jake with Ian has Mickey uncomfortable as fuck.

"Watcha guys doing?" Ian asks them, an amused smile on his face that reaches his eyes.

"Discussin' how Mickey's gonna break it off with Jake."

Comically, Ian's eyes widen and he looks back and forth between Mickey and Dylan as if searching for confirmation. Mickey'd laugh at him if he weren't wishing he were anywhere but here. "Oh," Ian finally says slowly nodding. "How come?"

Funnily enough, Mickey's annoyance at Dylan for answering that first question has completely disappeared and now he actually wants Dylan to answer for him again. Christ, he's like a shy child or some shit. He rubs a thumb across the corner of his mouth. "Just..." he trails off, trying to think back to any excuse he remembers from the films Zoe makes him watch with her. "We're probably better of as, uh, as friends or somethin'." Which may actually be total bullshit.

Ian appears to buy it though because all he does is nod again and say, "Well, cool, yeah", before leaving the room.

When Dylan asks him if he got that line from My Best Friend's Wedding or You've Got Mail Mickey punches him in the stomach before rolling over and deciding that a nap will make this whole thing better.

...

It's Jake who texts Mickey asking to meet up to talk which, according to Zoe, means feelings will be spoken about and Mickey will have to be honest unless he wants to wake up dickless. He doesn't.

Still, Mickey doesn't actually know how any of this shit is supposed to work. He has to break it off with Jake, yeah, but does the fact that Jake is the one that wants to talk mean he's going to break it off with Mickey? Fuck, what if he wants to talk about getting more serious? Mickey flicks his cigarette to the curb and quickly gets another out and lights it. The thing is, the really fucking annoying thing is that Mickey doesn't want to be an asshole about this. Sure, he's treated Jake like shit at times, but he doesn't want to just say that they're done and then leave. Mainly because Zoe will kill him for it but also because he actually does like Jake. He's a bit of a pussy and a pushover but he's a good guy and he's wormed his way into Mickey's friendship group so if they end on bad terms that's going to make everything completely awkward.

He leans up against the Starbucks he's supposed to meet Jake at and quickly finishes his cigarette. The place isn't too busy when Mickey pushes his way in and he spots Jake, wearing a Christmas jumper that should look terrible but actually looks really good, sat near the back staring outside.

Mickey doesn't bother ordering anything and heads straight for Jake's table whilst pulling off his sleeveless gloves and scarf. The weather is back to being a bitch. Smiling and running a hand through his hair, Jake faces him and kicks out the chair opposite to him.

With next to no grace, Mickey collapses down onto it and sighs. "Hey," he says and even that sounds awkward, stilted.

Jake returns the greeting and, before the silence between them becomes too uncomfortable, says, "So, uh, the things is, and I'm pretty sure you agree - we just, um," he nervously runs a hand through his hair again, messing it up and making it look better at the same time which is just unfair, "we don't really work so good. Probably too different or somethin', I dunno." That last part is mumbled into his coffe cup before he takes a sip, his eyes glued to the table.

It makes Mickey smirk. "Yeah, no, that's right. You're cool and a good guy, but, like... you're too good, alright?" Mickey rolls his eyes, shifting in his seat. "Shit," he says, "that sounded - what I mean is you're not enough like me and-"

"I get it," Jake says, finally looking up. He looks amused too, annoyingly. "And the whole no PDA rule was killing me," he adds with a light smile.

Mickey snorts. "Yeah, you're a real cuddler."

That seems to dispel any of the weirdness between them because they're back to talking like normal: Jake bitches about his architecture proffesor and how his boss' son keeps stating that he'd happily fuck him even though he has a girlfriend and Mickey moans about Dylan and then shows Jake his new tattoo and talks about Ian. Also Mandy. And Mickey thinks this might actually be okay. Maybe he can get past the fact that they've fucked and be just friends-who-keep-out-of-each-others'-pants with Jake.

...

In celebration of Mandy and Ian surviving a week living in New York, they all decide to go out. Unsurprisingly, Mickey, Dylan and Ian are waiting on the girls whilst they try on every single piece of clothing they own then decide not to wear it. At least that's what Mickey figures is the reason why they're taking almost two fucking hours to get ready. All he did was change into nicer pair of well-fitting jeans and a button down and freshen up. That took all of two minutes. He maybe would've let Dylan fuss over his hair if Ian weren't there. He still doesn't know why Ian being around has him second guessing himself, even fucking nervous at times, but it does.

Finally the girls emerge from the bathroom, made up and pretty. Mickey has to bite back a comment about the length of Mandy's skirt when he remembers that she isn't sixteen and (as) slutty anymore. With an obnoxious wolf-whistle, Dylan saunters over to Zoe straightening his tight denim jacket. He should look like some hipster dick in his jacket, slacks and Guns and Roses t-shirt. Annoyingly, he doesn't. He swoops Zoe into his arms and leads them all out of the apartment.

...

The club is the type of crowded that Mickey really hates. All sweating, writhing bodies and barely any room to just fucking breathe. But Mandy looks so happy and in her element, dragging Zoe to the dancefloor and then dragging Jake and another one of their friends into headlocks when she reaches them. It's such a childish thing to do that Mickey smiles at the image before taking the offered beer from Dylan.

"Avert your eyes, man," Mickey shouts into Dylan's ear when he sees Zoe looking over.

Dylan immediately looks down and pretends to be re-tying his hair back. For all his genuine confidence and easy-going attitude, Dylan can't seem to find it in himself to dance properly without being at least tipsy. Mickey finds it pretty damn hilarious, but he never dances so he doesn't really have a leg to stand on.

Ian on the other hand? He seems right at home with Mandy plastered to his front, moving her hips in time with the music and twisting round to bury her face in his neck.

It makes Mickey unbearably uncomfortable. Fuck knows why because he's caught his sister in way worse situations than this - even with Ian one time - and the dancing isn't even dirty or whatever. Maybe he's just a little jealous. Not of Mandy! And obviously not of Ian. But, fuck, they just look right or - Mickey doesn't even know, but every time he sees them together it irks a part of him.

Looking away, Mickey takes a few long gulps of his beer. Maybe he just needs to get laid, fuck about with someone other than Jake so he can forget about his complete fail at an attempt at a relationship. He spots a couple of girls looking over at him. They're doing that thing where they look at him whisper to each other then look back at him, smiling. Yeah, Mickey's not going anywhere near that.

**#**

Shannon's not ugly but she isn't really anything special. Her dark hair is straight and thin, her brown eyes small. Her body is pretty nice, not overly curvy but definitely not boyish. No body with boobs like that could be boyish.

The main, and possibly only, reason she gets so much action is because she's easy as fuck. She'd literally come up to Mickey in the school corridor and told him she'd blow him. No sugar-coating or flirting. They were fourteen - still are - but she walked around like a grown ass woman and Mickey didn't think he should say no so he said, "Yeah, sure", and they met up at her house and she deep-throated him until he shot his load down her throat.

He's in her room now, waiting on her to finish talking on the phone. The stuffed pig he's fiddling with is the same shade of pink as almost everything else he can see.

Mickey isn't nervous - fuck that - but he hasn't fucked a girl before, has only done shit with two other girls - both friends of Shannon's - since that first time with Shannon. Before he'd kissed and groped girls but that never really did a lot for Mickey. Still doesn't. Kissing just isn't all that great to him unless it leads to him coming. Whatever, the fucking point is that he isn't nervous. He just - it's something he's never done before. It's like the first time he smoked a joint: he knew it would be pretty fucking good but there was still a weird feeling inside him.

Before the damn pigs head falls off from his fiddling, Shannon walks back into her room, seemingly comfortable with only being in her underwear. Mickey thinks she looks alright. Doesn't exactly turn him on but the sight of her never really has. She kneels between his parted legs on the bed and huffs a laugh through her nose as she gets the toy from his hands and drops it to the floor near to his t-shirt. "So," she says, tilting her head to the side, "how you wanna do this?"

Mickey knows what she means, of course he fucking does, but he doesn't know how to answer her. He shrugs, nonchalant, says, "Whatever, don't mind", and hopes she just chooses.

She moves backwards and then flops onto her back beside him. Her bed is so big that a third person could easily fit on her other side. "Get on me then," she says, voice soft yet demanding like the hand she has around his forearm.

Mickey gets up and lies on top of her between her legs and lets her kiss him - open-mouthed and dirty.

One of her hands worms its way to the waistband of his boxers. Just toying with it, her knuckles brushing lightly against his tense stomach. Such a fucking tease and she knows it, gets enjoyment out of it and the way it makes Mickey swear at her, tug her hair. And when he growls slightly into her mouth and grinds his hips down, he feels her smile into the kiss as she finally gets her hand on him.

Mickey's only half hard, if that, but the way Shannon tightens her fist and slowly strokes him has him fully hard in no time. Girl knows her shit.

She pulls away, tells him to get naked before she leans over and starts looking through her bedside drawer.

After losing his boxers Mickey feels fucking awkward as shit sitting there naked so he tugs at her thong and waits for her to lift her hips up before he pulls it down. She wriggles them a little when he gets it off, throwing a smirk at him over her shoulder. So he gets back between her legs and sticks two fingers right into her.

Mickey thinks he's gotten pretty good at this - has gotten Shannon off a couple times just fingering her without even touching her clit - what with Shannon's instructions of "crook your fingers" and "yeah, keep doing that".

She's already wet - something Mickey will never not find sort of gross - and so he easily pushes his fingers in and out of her. She moans a little. None of it does anything for Mickey; why would it? And he has to slowly jerk himself off with his free hand to keep it up.

Finally she finds a condom and rips it open and expertly rolls it onto him whilst barely even looking. Wiping his fingers on her sheets, Mickey brings the duvet up from the end of the bed and loosely drapes it over himself. Now what? He's not about to ask, look like a fucking idiot, but seriously, does he just fuck into her? He knows she isn't a virgin, not by a long shot, but, fuck, does it hurt? He doesn't actually want to hurt her, even if he's only really interested in getting off.

"Anytime today," Shannon says, getting his attention. She's smirking though so Mickey just gives her a cocky smile and position himself before slowly sliding in.

He bites his lip on a moan and lets her drag his head down so he's nuzzling her neck. Thank Christ because he doesn't want her seeing his stupid sex face. He pulls back out and then thrusts in again, starting up a slow but steady rhythm. His dick is surrounded by hot tightness and it feels good - if he closes his eyes and just _moves_, it feels good.

When he shifts his hips a little higher, Shannon arches off of the bed and lets out a breathy moan. "Fuck, like that." Her legs are now wrapped around Mickey's waist and her hands are splayed on his back.

Mickey fucks into her at the same angle, fast and not at all gentle, and Shannon chests heaves up and down, boobs brushing against Mickey's front. She starts to meet his thrusts, pushing back on him and begging for it - "faster, Mickey, fuck" - and Mickey bites down where her neck meets her shoulder, muffling his pleasured groans, as he fucks into her faster.

The nails digging into and scratching at Mickey's back have his hips jerking wildly. He was aware that he liked stuff a little rough - fast, dirty blowjobs, fingers nearly bruising his hips - but the pain from Shannon's fucking trashy fake nails scratching him? Well shit, it has Mickey moaning like he's in a damn porno.

When Mickey comes, it escapes his notice that he hasn't once touched Shannon, that he's had his eyes screwed shut the entire time. He doesn't realise that he's never been able to get off if he's looking at whatever girl he's with.

It simply escapes his notice.

**#**

Mickey is, unwillingly, sipping at some bright blue cocktail that Jake insisted was amazing. It's weird to have Jake about without touching him. Not like hugging or anything like that, but simple touches to the neck or hip. Simple shit. Possessive. Because Mickey is possessive as hell and nobody has ever felt like his as much as Jake does. Did. Fuck.

"Wow."

Startled, Mickey looks to his side. Ian's stood there, red-faced and smiling like something is hilarious. "Wow what?"

"What the fuck is that?" he asks, hip cocked against the bar. The shirt he's wearing clings to him; his broad shoulders and muscled biceps straining against it.

Mandy couldn't just fuck an ugly guy, could she? He shrugs and puts more of his weight on his elbows, leaning further down against the bartop. "Jake got it for me. Looks gay, tastes great." He shifts his eyes to look at Ian as he chuckles before quickly looking back down at the blue liquid in front of him. "Try it, man," he says before he can think why there's no fucking need.

Ian smiles at him. The heat radiates off of him when he leans against Mickey to get his drink. He could have asked, Mickey thinks, trying to completely ignore everything that isn't the bar.

He doesn't watch Ian drink but he hears Ian's pleased moan because he's almost pushed right up against Mickey's side. "S'good," Ian hums , pushing the glass along until it's back where it was.

Dismissive, Mickey nods. A new song starts to play and people cheer and scream for it. Mickey doesn't know what the fuck it is but he hates it three seconds in. It's all loud, high-pitched sounds coupled with that low, lazy bass that so many dubstep songs have. Not to mention the God awful voice singing over it. He groans and wipes his non-sweaty hand over his face, smiling when he hears Ian grumbling about "this fucking song".

...

"Fuckin' bitch, come say 'at again, come - Mick, no, no, ge' off me!"

To say that Zoe has just had her fair share to drink wouldn't be an understatement, it'd be a fucking lie. Mickey's currently dragging her past the crowd of club-goers that gathered around to watch her catfight with a girl in a pink, animal print dress and bright red stilettos. Apparently she had been trying to dance with Dylan and that didn't sit well with Zoe who had passed from happy, loves everybody drunk and entered the stage that makes her about fifty times more of a bitch than usual.

Fed up of Zoe's flailing arms almost knocking him out, Mickey hoists her up over his shoulder. Dylan quickly pulls her dress down and keeps a hand on her lower back. It makes it really fucking difficult to walk with Dylan stepping backwards right in front of him, stumbling over his feet and still holding onto Zoe, but they eventually make it outside into the cool, winter air.

"Put me the fuck down, you li'l prick! Put me fuck - Dylan!"

Aggravated and not nearly drunk enough for this shit, Mickey drops Zoe and pushes her into Dylan's arms. She seems to calm immediately, whatever Dylan's murmuring into her hair must be working.

Mandy and Ian are already there leaning up against the brick wall and smoking. "Called a couple of cabs," Mandy says, loud because her ears probably haven't adjusted to no longer being in the club.

Mickey nods at her. He doesn't know where to stand. Dylan is cuddling with Zoe, his denim jacket draped over her shoulders; Mandy has her head resting on Ian's shoulder and he has his atop it. He's such a fucking third wheel - fifth wheel, even.

But thankfully the cabs turn up only a few minutes later. Then again he does have to decide which couple to ride with. Joy. Dylan's tongue is firmly wedged down Zoe's throat and he's grabbing handfuls of her ass and so he chooses his sister and Ian. Neither of them seem to be too drunk and he doesn't think Ian will start anything up with him there. Hopefully.

They all make their way into the cabs. Mickey rests his chin in his hand and looks out at the view once he's sat down. New York seems so different like this. All dark and kind of dangerous looking but with random slithers of light coming from streetlights that work and 24 hour convenience stores and their fluorescent 'open' signs.

Ian has both arms stretched out and Mickey doesn't know what to make of the way Ian's hand hovers over his arm before it clenches into a fist and rests back on the seat behind him.

* * *

**Longest chapter yet. Whether that's a good or bad thing, I don't know (probably the latter, sorry). Anyway, I only just realised that I haven't thanked you guys for actually reading this and reviewing etc, so thank you! Genuinely means a lot and inspires me to actually write and power through the evil bastard that is writer's block. So, again, thank you!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry this is so late, it was just impossible to write and I have no fucking idea why *sobs*. But we got a kiss! So yay for that, right?**

* * *

Hungover people are seriously fun to piss off. Especially when you come from a family where being a drunk is like a requirement and so you barely ever suffer the effects of alcohol.

Mickey is currently frying bacon as loudly as he possibly can and snickering to himself whenever Dylan groans like he's dying and Ian swears at him. And seriously, Ian's a Gallagher, he should be able to handle it. Though the noise Mickey's making is mainly to annoy people, it's also blocking out the sounds of Zoe vomiting.

"I'll kill you," Dylan grunts. "Love you like a brother, but I'll kill you if you don't stop."

The bacon is cooked anyway, so Mickey stops terrorizing them, plates it up with toast and passes both Ian and Dylan their breakfasts. Thankfully, it sounds like Zoe's stopped puking her guts out and just as the three of them begin to eat, she shuffles out of the bathroom. Her eyes are watery; red like her cheeks.

Dylan's attempt at putting an arm around her waist is completely shot down. "Don't touch me," she barks, "I'm fucking gross right now and don't need you touching me." Without a second glance at any of them she moves to the kitchen, gets out a pack of Oreos and sits down beside Mickey.

It's so tense that Mickey feels like laughing. Especially at the way Dylan keeps glancing up at Zoe like a fucking puppy who's been scolded. Man, the guy is so fucking whipped.

The silence lasts until Zoe speaks and Mickey isn't even ashamed to admit that he isn't going to speak until spoken to; Zoe looks goddamn murderous right now.

"Where's Mandy?" she asks, and before any of them can answer she's grimacing, breathing heavily. "Mickey, unless you want me to puke on your lap you'll get your fucking mug out of my face."

Jesus. Mickey rolls his eyes as he moves his coffee and kicks Ian's ankle under the counter for smirking. The little shit just smirks harder. He's probably the only one who's safe from Zoe which isn't even fair. Whatever. Mickey bites back all of the things he wants to say to Zoe - none of them exactly nice - and goes back to stuffing his face.

"She's at work," Dylan quietly answers, eyes down. "And... what's with the coffee?"

That question is actually one of the things Mickey stopped himself from saying. By the look on Zoe's face it was a smart move.

"What?" she snaps. Oh shit, her eyes are doing that thing where they get wide and don't seem to ever blink. "You're allowed to not like coffee but I'm not?" She carries on through Dylan's attempt at interrupting. "Is there a set of rules for you and a separate set for me? Is that how it is?" Her Oreos have been forgotten and she's now leaning over the counter, palms flat against it and dangerously close to Dylan's food.

And Dylan seems to have passed scared and moved straight onto pissed. So he won't even care that what he's saying might anger her even more. Fucking brilliant.

"Babe, what the fuck are you talkin' 'bout? Rules? Jesus, all I asked is what's with the coffee 'cause usually you love the shit and now you sayin' that it's gonna make you sick. That's all."

Which is a reasonable response and all, makes sense. Mickey's still getting up to leave, though, because he just knows that it's going to escalate. They'll be screaming in each others faces in no time and then they'll kiss, make up, and have really loud sex. He doesn't want to be around for any of it.

He rushes to his room throws on some shoes and a grey hoodie and makes to leave. By the time he's at the front door Zoe is already screaming so loud that it must hurt and Dylan is frantically trying to calm her. Just as he begins to open the door there's a hand on his shoulder and he turns to see Ian looking at him with a small smile.

"Are you leaving 'cause you have things to do or because of them?" he asks, slowly removing his hand from Mickey.

Rubbing a thumb across his bottom lip, Mickey shrugs. "They get pretty into it. Not exactly a joy to be around." At Ian's little nod and look back at the arguing pair, Mickey thinks that maybe Ian's like him; growing up around arguments and fights has left him kind of weird about raised voices. So he asks, "You wanna come? Probably gonna go to Paul's or somethin'."

"Yeah, okay."

...

Paul's isn't busy at all. There's only several locals dotted around sipping beers and watching whatever daytime tv is playing. The bar is empty so Mickey guides Ian over to it and they sit together on a couple of stools.

The walk over was pretty fucking awkward. Mickey had smoked just to be doing something and Ian had asked questions about Mickey's job, how it's going there and Mickey answered, asked questions back about Ian's new job. Turns out you can only really talk about your jobs for a couple of minutes before it gets really boring.

But now they're sat in Paul's bar and Mickey feels at home here and in the corner of his eye he can see Ian looking over the place. Mickey doesn't think Ian's ever been here. He's probably noticing how alike it is to The Alibi.

Paul comes out from the store-room and smiles wide at Mickey. "What can I get ya, son?"

"Two beers."

Paul smirks, a glint in his blue eyes, and leans against the bar, directly in front of Ian. "'Scuse his manners, I'm Paul," he holds out his hand, "an' you?"

Ian takes hold of his hand and shakes it. "I'm Ian," he says, smiling.

It's all very nice and polite after that, has Mickey zoning out and fiddling with his lighter. Once Paul gets them their beers, he downs half of it in one go then lights a cigarette. He sticks another in his mouth and lights it when Ian asks for one. Their hands brush when he passes it to him and Mickey darts his eyes away and towards Paul.

"It's like being back in Chicago," Ian states, blowing smoke through his nostrils.

Confused, Mickey looks back at him, face scrunched up. "What is?"

With the hand holding his cigarette, Ian motions to their surroundings. "This place. I keep expecting to see Kev serving a beer or Frank going off on a drunken rant." He huffs a short laugh. "This place is probably a little too classy for Frank, though."

"Nah, man. Serves booze; that's enough for him."

Ian chuckles quietly to himself and just like that they're both off reminiscing about South Side, swapping stories about their families that the other has never heard: Debbie punching Frank in the face one time after he stole the money they were saving up for Liam's medical bills; how one of Joey's ex-girlfriends stabbed him in the hand when she found out he cheated on her. It's an easy back and forth conversation, lasting longer than either of them notice, only stopping when they eventually get onto the topic of Mickey's dad.

"Sorry about... y'know," Ian says, like he has to say it; like how everyone who knew his dad says it.

Mickey snorts, lights up a new cigarette. "Are you? 'Cause I'm not. He was a fucking bastard."

"Okay, yeah, but he was still your dad; still family," Ian reasons.

Christ, Gallaghers and their fucking family values. "Like you won't be at least a little glad when Frank's six feet under."

Shrugging, Ian bites his lip and looks away. "He's not actually my dad." At Mickey's hand motion to carry on, he does. "Monica cheated on him with his brother, who's really my dad, so technically Frank's my uncle. So Lip, Fiona and everyone are more like my half siblings and cousins."

Well shit. "Is anyone's family actually fuckin' normal?" Mickey shakes his head, ignores Ian's laughter. "But anyway, point still stands, man. My dad was a prick, didn't do one good thing for me, so keep your sorry."

"Okay then, I take it back," Ian says, smiling wide and holding up his hands in mock surrender. Dick.

Half-heartedly, Mickey shoves at his arm.

...

After getting a text from Dylan telling him that Zoe's calmed down, he and Ian head back to the apartment.

What Dylan left out of the text was that Zoe would be calm enough to moan her fucking heart out. Mickey freezes with one foot in the apartment, Ian just as still by his side. Zoe lets out a cry of curses about Dylan's mouth and Mickey doesn't know why the fuck he lives with these people.

Turning, Mickey ushers Ian inside and once he is, slams the door closed with maybe a little too much force. Silence follows and then Dylan peaks his head out from his bedroom, sweaty and pink in the cheeks.

"Hey." His voice croaks and he coughs, clearing it. "Uh, could you maybe just put on the tv real loud or... music? We'll be done in," he looks behind himself, then back at them, "like a minute, two tops." Then he's gone.

Ian breathes out a laugh, moving to the living area. "What do you want on?" he asks.

"Fuckin' - anythin' man, just hurry the fuck up."

So that's how he ends up watching Teen Mom re-runs, full volume, and getting high with Ian at three in the afternoon. And Dylan is a goddamn liar because he and Zoe are at it for over an hour.

"People growin' inside other people is so weird," Mickey says, unknowingly for the third time. Weed, without alcohol, makes his brain to mouth filter completely disappear. He remembers one time when he was about fifteen and he almost came out to Mandy. Thank fuck she was too out of it to realise.

Ian giggles with a mouthful of Pringles. "So fucking weird."

...

At five Ian goes to work - still slightly high and mumbling about paper work or some shit - and Mickey is left with alone now that both Dylan and Zoe have gone out to fuck knows where to do whatever it is they do. He doesn't have work today and everybody else is busy. For half a moment Mickey thinks about texting Jake, telling him to come round for a fuck or something. Then he remembers that they're not actually doing that anymore.

But they're friends, right? They've seen each other since they broke up, saw each other last night. Hanging out wouldn't be weird; shouldn't be. Except Mickey's horny and he'll probably make a pass at Jake and then he'll get Zoe raging at him. It's probably not worth it. He's just not used to hanging out with people he used to be fucking but isn't anymore.

So Mickey puts on his Breaking Bad dvd and lets the time pass.

...

Zoe has practically moved in now. For the last five days - since she had that crazy argument with Dylan - she's slept round and when Mickey showered this morning he knocked over about fifty different bottles of shampoo and conditioner and something called an exfoliating foot scrub. Mickey's used to having Zoe around a lot, most of the time he quite likes it.

What he doesn't like is how she's throwing up all the fucking time. So technically that isn't her fault, but the fact that she gets so fucking pissed off about being ill is. Mickey has to remind himself several times a day that he doesn't hit girls.

Then there are the times, when Mickey is watching tv or playing Xbox, that she'll fall asleep slumped against his side or with her head nestled on his lap. Like Mickey is her own personal pillow or something. Mickey doesn't really mind it, it's not like a big issue or anything. It's weird, though. Zoe's being pretty weird.

She's cupping one of her boobs when she comes out from the bathroom. Her hair is dripping wet and she's wearing a pair of red plaid pyjama pants and an NYU sweatshirt.

Mickey frowns at her, wondering what the hell she's even doing.

"Stop looking at me like that." She stops fondling her chest then looks down at it. "Think they look bigger?"

"Uh..." Mickey is outright staring at her boobs right now. Not even for the first time. Zoe likes to get a purely objective opinion of how good or bad her boobs look. A lot. "Maybe a little. Can't really tell." When she lifts up her sweatshirt he says, "Bigger."

She nods in agreement then goes to the kitchen.

Mickey easily ignores her. That is until she stops moaning about there being no more syrup and there's a loud clang of something falling into the sink.

Getting up on his knees, Mickey faces her. "Zoe, what the-"

"Oh shit! Fucking - oh my God, Mickey, we've gotta leave."

As she rushes back to Dylan's room, Mickey stands, crosses his arms over his chest. "Why?"

"Just - please can you put something on your feet and get Dylan's car keys and just hurry up!"

Because he doesn't have a death wish, Mickey reluctantly shoves his feet into a pair of boots that may actually be Dylan's and waits for Zoe to come back and maybe explain why she's acting like a crazy bitch.

He doesn't even get a chance to ask her what's up because suddenly she's there and dragging him out of the apartment.

...

The car ride is silent until Zoe tells him to pull over outside a pharmacy. He finds a spot and parks. Zoe doesn't move.

"You gettin' out?" Mickey asks her, because he's convinced that she's just going to do her thing, come back and never speak about what the fuck is going on.

He's wrong. She says, "I'm pregnant", looking him right in the eye. "Can't believe it took me this long to figure it out. I've had strange cravings for food I don't usually eat, I haven't been drinking coffee, I've been throwing up-"

"Okay, alright, fuck." Mickey's voice is quiet, calming. Taking a deep breath, he shakes his head, feels like telling her the importance of goddamn contraception and being responsible. "Dylan's?" he asks. That's safer territory.

"Yeah," she sighs, scraping her hair back from her face. "Probably happened that first time. Too rushed or whatever to even think about a condom." She slaps the dashboard and curses. "Can you go in there and buy a few tests? I would do it but I'm in these fucking pyjamas and I look like shit and I don't even usually care about that a-"

Mickey puts his hands around hers where they're mid-air and flailing. "Just... chill. Alright? Just sit here and let me deal with tests and whatever and don't get worked up about it. We'll deal with whatever happens when it happens." He leaves the car quickly after that. There's a question in Zoe's dark eyes, a question about why he's not freaking out. And Mickey doesn't think it's a question he has a right to answer.

**#**

This'd be easier to do if Mickey had a magazine or something. Maybe even a shitty porno to watch. Jesus, even one where the twink is getting fucked by some ugly ass grandpa would be more helpful than the sounds of his dad snoring and his brothers arguing about shit that doesn't even matter.

He tightens his fist, shifts further up the bed so that he's in a more comfortable position. His elbow isn't at such an awkward angle anymore and his rhythm is just right. Feels good enough that he has to bite his lip on a groan so his family doesn't hear.

Not like that matters when Mandy fucking bursts in and heads straight for the bathroom. Mickey freezes; he has his hand on his dick, t-shirt shoved up under his armpits and his boxers around his ankles. He's practically naked on his bed and Mandy barely even glanced his way.

Moment completely ruined, Mickey wipes his hand on the sheets and rights his clothing. Frustrated and so fucking sexually frustrated that it hurts, he punches his pillow a few times then lights up a cigarette. God forbid he gets five fucking minutes so he can jerk off in peace. May as well be asking for a world without war or some shit

"Fuck, come on!" Mandy's shout is easily heard from where Mickey's sat on the bed.

"Mandy?" he tentatively asks, hoping that she isn't having "women's troubles" or whatever the fuck excuses girls use at school for spending half an hour in the toilet.

"Mickey?" She opens the door and Mickey's heartbeat gets slightly erratic at the look on her face.

"Who did what?" he asks on impulse. If he can beat his frustration out on someone, he'll gladly do so.

Looking down at her feet, Mandy shakes her head. "Nobody." She bites her lip and won't even look in Mickey's direction. "Might be pregnant," she mumbles.

"Jesus Christ," Mickey hisses, taking a step closer. He hates that Mandy flinches, even though it's only a tiny bit. "Ever heard of a fuckin' condom, maybe? The pill? You seriously let some guy knock you up?"

"Fuck you, don't get all high and mighty like you're a saint!"

They stare at each other for what feels like minutes. There's no way they could afford to abort a baby and Mandy's only fucking sixteen. It's hypocritical for Mickey to call her out on being a slut, but fuck does he want to. He wants to keep her locked up so that no guy can get close enough to even think about having sex with her. Mandy'd kill him if he tried that and he'd probably deserve it.

Her phone begins to beep and she steps back into the bathroom to turn it off. Mickey follows her, sees the five separate tests in the sink, sees Mandy's chest begin to rise and fall more dramatically; Mickey follows her and wraps her up in his arms and lets her cling to him and mutter about how she can't have a baby, can't be one of those teen moms like their own one was, can't have that kind of life.

Mickey gets her to sit on the edge of the bathtub whilst he reads the individual leaflets so he knows what means negative or positive. They're all negative and Mandy loudly sighs straight after Mickey does.

"This don't mean you're not," he says, hands gripping the edges of the sink, head bowed. "Go to a clinic or some shit, get a doctor to test you."

"I'm not an idiot, I know," Mandy says, but she just sounds tired now, not angry.

Mickey nods. He knows she isn't.

**#**

Zoe makes him promise not to tell anyone that every one of the tests are positive. He can't help but hate her a bit for it. He doesn't want to be a part of anyone's secret. Secrets just complicate shit, Mickey knows that better than a lot of people. They can eat away at you. When he made the decision to move to New York he told himself that he wouldn't keep secrets. Fuck secrecy; he'd spent all of his life keeping secrets.

Nothing good can come from Zoe not telling Dylan that she's carrying his fucking baby. She says that she's going to wait until she goes to a doctor, gets it confirmed. Like it isn't already blatantly obvious that she is. All of the symptoms are there, she said so herself and _ten fucking tests_ are saying that she is.

She and Mandy are up cooking when Mickey gets home at one in the morning after work a few days later. He frowns at them, flings his jacket over the back of the couch.

"Hey," Mandy says, before blowing a forkful of spaghetti and eating it. "Zoe couldn't sleep and I was already up."

Mickey avoids Zoe's eyes. She got the results from the doctor today. Probably hasn't told Dylan.

Ian comes out of the bathroom and smiles fondly at Mandy and Zoe eating spaghetti straight from the pan it was cooked in. He walks over, drops a kiss to Mandy's head then gets two bowls out. He fills them both and holds one out in Mickey's direction. Ian smirks at Mickey's raised brow then motions with his head for Mickey to come closer.

As he does, Mandy and Zoe go over to the couch and so Mickey hops up so that he's sat beside the sink and takes the bowl from Ian's hand. It warms his cold fingers and he sighs.

"Stressful day?" Ian asks, his side brushing up against Mickey's leg from where he stands beside him.

Looking over at where Zoe's shovelling food into her mouth, Mickey shrugs. "Dunno, man. Shit's just goin' on - I can't talk about it, so don't even ask."

Ian grows silent after that and Mickey wants to thank him but he keeps his mouth shut.


	10. Chapter 10

Turns out Zoe's five weeks pregnant. Mickey doesn't know why Zoe tells him this, wishes she'd just shut up about it and tell Dylan but she says she's waiting for the right time. That's bullshit to Mickey. He knows Zoe's just scared, like she was before her and Dylan properly got together. She avoids things, tells everyone else to face up to their issues yet avoids her own.

Obviously Mickey keeps his mouth shut because there's no point. Zoe won't tell Dylan right now no matter what he says and he doesn't know if Zoe will end up lying about how long she's known or be truthful about it. One way or another Mickey doesn't want to be around for it. Doesn't even want to be involved in it but that choice was taken out of his hands. Fucking Zoe.

Mickey startles when someone grabs onto his hips from behind, almost burning his finger on the waffle oven. "Fuck!"

Dylan's laughter is deep and familiar in his ear. "Make you jump, baby?" He laughs even harder when Mickey elbows him in the ribs.

"You've got a girlfriend now, maybe stop with the petnames?" Mickey says. Snaps, actually. He doesn't mean to but he's on edge.

Without looking, Mickey can tell Dylan's shoulders have dropped. "'Kay."

Mickey wants to tell him. He really, really wants to blurt it out that the girl Dylan loves is pregnant with his baby. Instead he gets the waffles out and puts them on a plate. Plain, just how Dylan likes them. Mickey's not so hungry anymore.

"Well ain't you just the sweetest li'l housewife?" Dylan coos, smiling goofily, when Mickey passes him the plate.

They settle down across from each other at the breakfast counter. Fondly shaking his head, Mickey lights up a cigarette then blows the smoke up towards the high ceiling. "And, what, that makes you the man of the house?" Mickey teases, flicking ash into his ashtray. "The provider?"

"Damn straight."

Mickey smiles at his friend then looks away. Dylan trusts him. Stupidly, probably, but he honestly trusts Mickey a lot. Tells him so every time he gets drunk on cheap wine, hugging Mickey or nuzzling his neck, saying that Mickey's the best friend he's had for a long time, that he's the brother he always wanted.

Standing, Mickey stubs out his cigarette then leaves Dylan to finish his breakfast alone. When he barges into the bathroom, not thinking to knock, he sees Ian rush to wrap a towel around his slim hips, eyes wide.

"Shit," Mickey stutters, eyes following the movement of a water droplet running over Ian's collarbone. Pulling himself together, Mickey drags his eyes away, quickly says, "Sorry", then shuts the door, Ian's smirk the last thing he sees.

...

Work that night is a welcome distraction. Neither Dylan nor Zoe have a shift so Mickey's able to escape from the looks they both keep shooting him. Zoe's eyes, wide and dark, black almost, hold a warning but also a plea: don't tell Dylan. And Dylan's are curious, not yet hurt, but Mickey knows they soon will be. In amongst that light grey-blue, Dylan's asking why Mickey can't look at him properly, can't laugh with him and have it sound genuine. It's only been a handful of days but Mickey knows he's acting off with Dylan and seriously how -

"Mickey!" And that's Jake, smiling wide at him, biting his lip.

Shaking away his thoughts, Mickey walks over to where Jake's leaning an elbow on the bartop. Christ, why does he always look so fucking good? His light denim shirt is open, sleeves rolled up to his pointy elbows and the thin, grey vest he's wearing underneath it has a low neckline and is just as tight as his black jeans. Why the fuck did they stop sleeping together? Because right now Mickey can't think of one good reason.

"Vodka and coke?" he asks casually, like he wasn't just checking him out.

"Make that two, a bud, and three shots of tequila," says a girl with light pink hair. Mickey sort of recognises her from the one time he went to meet Jake at the bookstore he works at. The guy with the nose ring and an arm around her waist he doesn't recognise at all.

They all take their shots when Mickey places them on the bar, grimacing at the taste. Then the pink-haired girl and who Mickey assumes is her boyfriend go to the dance floor.

"So, uh," Jake pauses, runs his hand through his already messy hair, "the guy I'm with," he points over at him and Mickey nods, "well, he's this, like, incredible dj, and, uh, in three days he's playing at this underground club and he asked me to invite friends so, y'know, if you - and like, all you guys - wanna come that'd be cool."

Mickey can't help it, he laughs quietly for a short moment at how awkward Jake is because fuck, he still finds it cute. "Sure," he says.

They arrange that Jake will meet them at Mickey's apartment seeing as the club is literally underground and Mickey has no idea where it is. It takes all of Mickey's self-control to not tell Jake to wait for him after his shift ends. Whatever, he can always go home with the guy who's blatantly staring at his ass. A good fuck will probably improve his mood, distract him from his guilt.

...

Mickey doesn't bother being quiet when he gets in the next day. Everyone should still be asleep, seeing as it's eight in the morning. He had a good night. That guy he went home with was a fucking firecracker in bed.

So Mickey's feeling good when he steps into his apartment, black shirt still not buttoned up right. He's kicking off his shoes when someone clears their throat and has him swearing under his breath. One shoe in hand, he looks up and spots Ian leaning back against the fridge cradling a bowl of something in his hand.

Frowning, Mickey drops his shoe and takes a few steps towards the kitchen. "The fuck you doin' up?"

"I have work," Ian says, simple. He's smiling now, wide and amused. Slowly, he gives Mickey a once over and his smile falters a little. "Good night?"

"Yeah, could say that." Now in the kitchen, Mickey pours himself a glass of water.

"Jesus, you hook up with a vampire?" Ian's closer now, right at Mickey's side.

His mouth full of water, all Mickey can do is hum in question.

The fingers that jab into his neck nearly make him choke as he swallows. Ian chuckles, walks backwards so that he's back to leaning against the fridge. "You have about," Ian squints, eyes roaming over Mickey's neck, "five of 'em. Looks like he was marking his territory"

Feeling awkward under Ian's scrutiny and what sounded like a dig, Mickey shrugs and begins to walk to his bedroom. "Yeah, well, he probably has a thing for 'em or somethin'. Fuck if I know."

"Who?"

Mickey stills. He's only a few feet from his bedroom door and he wasn't expecting a response. He faces Ian again, swallows another mouthful of water. "Can't remember his name." Because he didn't even ask for it, didn't care enough to.

Ian seems to start thinking something over. His head is tilted to the side and he's looking down at Mickey's feet like, what, they hold the fucking answers? Mickey can't be bothered with this shit, whatever it is. Maybe Ian's judging him for it, maybe he's not, but right now Mickey wants to be in his bed, catching up on the sleep he missed out on last night.

"Yeah, whatever," he mutters, finally getting inside his room. He strips out of his work clothes, hisses when he accidentally nudges his hips. The bruises will probably hurt for a week. Mickey doesn't look down at them.

...

The hot water spraying down onto him feels great on Mickey's skin. It helps to soothe the ache in his hips; bruises a little more purple than they were earlier. He still tries not to acknowledge that they're there, feels weird about it. Like, he hates that he kind of gets off on being used. Not all the time, fuck that. But when he's stressed out and pissed off he kind of likes to let go or something. He doesn't do it a lot because he feels like a pussy for liking it. Ninety-five percent of the time he's the one who calls the shots. And he'd never let a fuck buddy or someone like Jake ever have the control over him. But a stranger can forget him, forget how weak he gets sometimes.

And now Mickey's staring at the bruises in the steamed up mirror, doing the complete opposite of what he intended. With a frustrated sigh he turns around, leans back against the white surface so that he can't look in the mirror anymore.

And after brushing his teeth with more aggression than was strictly necessary, Mickey leaves the bathroom in his boxers. Dylan wolf-whistles at him from where he's sat with Ian on the couch. They're watching fucking Teen Mom.

Mickey shoots Dylan a glare, more out of routine than annoyance. But he catches the way Ian keeps glancing down at his hips. It's like he wants to stare but won't let himself.

"You sweet, li'l darlin'," Dylan drawls to Ian, laying on the Southern accent, "give it a couple of weeks and you'll be used to Mickey in his state of debauchery." His grin is big and makes him look about ten years younger. "Ain't that right, Mickey?"

Mickey doesn't answer but it's not like he needs to, he's overheard Mandy joking with Ian about Mickey and his "sluttiness". Guy should've known what to expect.

"Oh hey, you wanna go watch a movie wi' me?" Dylan asks, voice loud over the sounds of people arguing on the tv.

Alone time with Dylan? Mickey's not exactly in the mood for that. Not now when Dylan's all happy and carefree. "Nah, man. Still kinda tired." Which isn't strictly a lie; he _is_ tired. Only that's not the reason he doesn't want to hang out.

"Right, yeah, okay." Mickey looks over just in time to see Dylan's disappointed face morph into one of fake amusement. "Not that I'm surprised, dude, by the looks of things you had a, uh, pretty busy night."

Mickey huffs a fake laugh. He can't remember walking to the kitchen but now that he's in it, realises he isn't actually hungry or thirsty. There are dishes in the sink that people have neglected to put into the dishwasher, cups and cutlery, too. Mickey starts running hot water into it - may as well wash up whilst he's here.

"How about after you've slept?" Dylan asks, and Mickey thought this conversation was over. "Catch a late night, movie? Dinner? 'Cause I gotta say, we haven't had sufficient bro time lately. Anyways, how 'bout it? Wanna do somethin' later?"

The sound of the plate he was just scrubbing slamming down on the dish rack has Mickey surprised he didn't smash it. "Jesus Christ, what's with the twenty fucking questions?" he snaps through gritted teeth.

"Not sure, why you so worked up?" Dylan snaps back.

"Fuck off."

"No, come on, dude. Have I done somethin' to like, upset you? You mad at me?"

All but throwing a cup back into the sink, Mickey's hands move to grip the counter, his head ducked. "For fuck - no! Alright?" He doesn't go on because he'll end up saying something he'll regret. "Christ, just get off my back!"

Silence follows. It stays that way - the sounds of water splashing, the clang of dishes on metal, and the people on tv talking filling the apartment - for a minute or two before Dylan announces he's going to meet Zoe at the tattoo shop.

Mickey can sense Ian lurking near him even before he moves to his side. Mickey risks a quick glance his way, looks long enough to see that Ian's staring at him, likely out of curiosity.

Turning his attention back to the now almost empty sink, Mickey asks, "You done with that?", with a vague hand movement directed at the glass in Ian's hand.

When Ian takes a small step closer, it puts him right at Mickey's side. It's not uncomfortable in the slightest. "Looks like they hurt."

Mickey knows - of course he knows what Ian is referring to. Doesn't mean he knows _why_. Briefly, he looks down at one hip then up at Ian. "Are you fucking done with it or not?"

Ian raises his eyebrows at him, but doesn't look away. "You're pissed at Dylan, doesn't mean you have to be pissed at me." He hands Mickey the glass.

"I'm - I'm not pissed at him." Mickey quickly cleans the glass. "But don't be an asshole and ask me about it." He side-eyes Ian, can't help but smirk when he says, "Just 'cause you're bangin' my sister don't mean I won't kick your ass." Shit. That sounded like flirting. Mickey starts to dry a few cups, doesn't miss the quiet snort from Ian, then reaches up to put them back in the shiny white cupboard.

"Right. Is it all healed now?" Ian asks, nodding at Mickey's tattoo.

"Pretty much, yeah."

Ian nods. "What does it mean?"

There's no reason for that question to embarrass Mickey, leave him rubbing the nape of his neck. It's a nervous gesture he rarely ever showcases. "Uh, like, infinite change or some shit." Like Zoe didn't explain it properly to him. "Zoe said it's relevant to me," he shrugs.

Ian's tank top shifts slightly higher when he cocks his hip against the kitchen unit, eyeing Mickey. "Yeah, I guess it is."

**#**

"Stay the fuck outta this, Gallagher," Mickey snaps before spitting at Kash's feet.

Ian's eyes are wide. Through fear, Mickey thinks. Pussy. Not like he and his brothers haven't done this before. They're low on cash and the whores two blocks down from them are too fucking dumb and poor to realise that they're overcharging them for a pack of smokes. It's good, easy money. So fuck Ian and his fucking Bambi eyes.

Neither Nicky or Iggy bothered to hit Ian. Maybe he's bulked up a bit - not like Mickey's been fucking looking, he's not dumb - but they could still take him. Even Iggy's skinny ass; get him to fight and he goes crazy. That's why he's stood by the last aisle still clutching onto a pack of beers. Mickey's got Kash shoved up against the front door, arm across his throat. Asshole could have gotten out of this without the busted lip and knee to the ribs and the red stain on his stupid sweater. Could have, but he decided to play the fucking hero.

"He's not - Mickey let go of him, he's not gonna do anything."

Mickey doesn't budge. Did Ian seriously expect him to?

Iggy taps his shoulder, says, "All done, man", with that glint in his eyes he always gets when he's breaking the law. Fucking idiot.

Nodding, Mickey shoves Kash away. He stumbles into the counter, Ian rushing to his side.

Turns out Joey shoved a shit ton of food into one of the bags. Dumbass is good for some things.

They're almost across the road when Ian calls out, "Hey, why don't you guys steal from a neighborhood you don't live in?" Mickey turns around to face him. "Have some civic pride, huh?"

Iggy snorts from behind him as Mickey nods a little, gets out the cream cheese that Joey put into the bag then throws it at Ian, only missing because the dick fucking ducks. He gets the front door pretty well, though.

Turning around, he says, "You know where I live if you have a problem."

**#**

Somehow, Ian manages to convince Mickey to come help him choose what hot tubs the gym should get. Or something like that. He said it'd be good for him; distract him from whatever's going on with Dylan.

"And what is going on?" Ian asks, again, when they reach another red light.

Since about ten minutes ago when Ian first asked, Mickey's been seriously considering telling Ian. Despite how he could pass it on to Mandy. Not that Mickey's seen them alone together at all recently. And that could be cause for concern, but really isn't right now.

So Mickey takes a long breath, keeps on staring at the slowly moving traffic. "Zoe's pregnant."

"Huh," Ian says. That's it. Like Mickey hasn't been freaking the fuck out about it for days.

Incredulous, Mickey gives him a look, face screwed up. "That's all you got?"

Shrugging, his attention back on driving and not, you know, crashing Dylan's car, Ian chuckles. "Well yeah. I mean, I'm guessing Dylan doesn't know and that's what's getting you all... bitchy." He ends his sentence with a smirk in Mickey's direction.

"Fuck off. It's a legit reason to - and I'm not bitchy. Just. You don't know Dylan as well as me. When he finds out that Zoe _and_ me have been keepin' this from him... fuck. He trusts me." Mickey gnaws at a thumbnail, stares at Ian's gloved hands on the steering wheel.

"But so does Zoe. Right?" Mickey nods despite the fact that Ian's not even looking his way. "He should understand. Yeah, he's gonna be mad, but Zoe's pregnant. That'll probably like... overshadow that."

That's a good point. Shuts Mickey the hell up. Doesn't exactly stop him from feeling guilty, though.

"And I won't tell Mandy or anything," Ian adds like an afterthought.

...

They spend a whole hour at some random warehouse in the middle of fucking nowhere because Ian is an indecisive little shit. All the hot tubs look the same to Mickey. Apparently this is a "big, managerial decision" and so Ian takes his sweet time asking questions about hot tubs that all look the same and all do the same damn thing.

When Mickey sighs for about the millionth time, hands deep in his black hoodie's pockets, Ian smiles over at him. He's talking to this half-bald man who pretends not to be checking out Ian's ass every time he bends down to inspect the hot tubs. Mickey doesn't like him.

Pointing over at Mickey, Ian says something to the man before walking over.

His navy bomber jacket isn't zipped up and his black t-shirt stretched over his chest. Christ, no wonder that guy was staring. "Exercise is a good stress-reliever," he says.

"So?" Mickey would really like to know why there's nowhere to fucking sit in this place.

"I'm just sayin', you're stressed. You should join my gym, I can get you a discount."

"This your way of callin' me fat?" Mickey jokes, fiddling with some shelves that he probably shouldn't touch.

Ian actually giggles. "No, man. You, uh, you're in really good shape." His eyes are now on the ground but Mickey can see the way his cheeks are tinged slightly pink.

It's awkward. At least it is until Mickey gets he should say something. "Keep talkin' like that and a guy can get the wrong idea."

He's still staring down but Ian laughs and Mickey doesn't realise he does too, unable to stop himself.

...

Ian finally makes a decision on the damn hot tubs and Mickey all but sprints back to the car. They decide to go to Paul's to eat and they sit at the back, near the jukebox that doesn't work anymore and a black and white picture of the Statue of Liberty.

They're currently discussing the Sox and the Yankees and how Mickey's a traitor.

"Not my fault they're good," Mickey reasons, mouth half full of fries.

Ian looks so betrayed it's fucking hilarious. Mickey laughs at him around the rim of his beer bottle, along with Paul. He'd sat with them as soon as they came in, crossword on his lap and reading glasses on.

Taking a drag of a cigarette, Ian stands. "I gotta piss and I can't even look at you right now," he says, smiling. He passes the cigarette to Mickey then goes.

Mickey's still smiling when Paul clears his throat. He blows smoke through his nostrils and shoves another fry in his mouth. "Yeah?"

"Hm? Oh, nothin', son. Just that smile o' yours looks about ready to split ya face in two." His voice is so casual, like he's not really bothered. But his words seem kind of - Mickey doesn't think he's acting weird but Paul is crazy observant, so who knows, maybe he is.

Mickey's still trying to think of something to say back when Ian comes back.

And if it weren't for the_ look _Paul shoots him when they leave, Mickey'd never have assessed everything he did around Ian for those couple of hours. It's not that Mickey doesn't know he's attracted to Ian. Ignoring it isn't the same thing. And Ian's cool and he's funny, but so fucking what? Mickey doesn't like the guy, not like that. He doesn't. Fuck that. He's his sister's boyfriend.

...

Mickey seriously can't believe Jake brought a change of shirt with him and actually asked Mickey if he thought he looked alright. Mickey said he did because he does, obviously, then wouldn't get off his back about it.

Apparently Mandy is out with friends and Zoe isn't coming because she can't drink because of the fucking baby growing inside of her. Dylan looked sort of put out about Zoe turning down the invite. He wouldn't if Zoe was actually honest about why she couldn't go.

The club is apparently within walking distance, something Mickey's glad about. It's a rare, surprisingly warm evening. Nowhere near spring levels of warmth, but it's almost February now and it hasn't snowed at all in nearly two weeks. Mickey's glad he's only in a t-shirt.

Dylan throws his arm around Mickey's shoulders and Mickey has to bite down on his bottom lip so as to not smile too wide. He's sort of excited about tonight. The alcohol should chill him out a bit and Dylan is in a good mood. Well, he always is, but tonight he's seems especially happy, so is Ian. It rubs off on Mickey.

...

Turns out the club is underneath this weird ass shop that sells, like, incense and "healing stones". Both Mickey and Dylan share a dubious look.

But when they actually get into the club, their minds are changed. It's a lot bigger than Mickey thought. Not like your average club, but it's bigger than his apartment. The walls are all brick, some random graffiti sprayed on them. The dj booth has been set up high up and there's actually a makeshift bar at one side. Mickey's pretty impressed.

Dylan claps Jake on the back, surveying the place. "It's like the motherfuckin' TARDIS!" he exclaims, loud over the music that's already pulsing through the place.

Pleased, Jake smiles at them all and then introduces them to some of his friends. The pink-haired girl from a couple of nights ago is called Pollyanna. Mickey doesn't even bother muffling his scoff, but nor does Ian so it's alright.

Five minutes in and Mickey can tell that there's a hell of a lot of drug taking and dealing going on. He wants in. Not the dealing. He wants to take something. He'll settle for some coke but he's already seen someone with poppers. Fuck, it's been a long time. Dylan isn't anti-drugs, gets high sometimes with Mickey, but he's not really into anything else, says it all freaks him out. Fair enough, though it means Mickey doesn't get to do anything too hard around him without getting these concerned looks. He remembers Dylan's face when he told him about the time he tried heroin.

So Mickey settles on asking Jake who's best to buy a bit of coke from. And it turns out that Jake already has some on in and so he drags Mickey to the toilets. They're fucking covered in graffiti - phone numbers, actual art, weird little squiggles - but otherwise clean.

Jake does two lines off the sink and so does Mickey. He can tell it's good shit. Jake gets out a pen from his jeans pocket and doodles a little building above the sink, bent over. Mickey doesn't even stop himself from stepping up behind him, hands enveloping his hips.

"You come here for the art or what?" Mickey asks, the music sounding louder, clearer to him now.

Jake straightens up, turns around and kisses Mickey. Short and sweet. "Come on. I'm going to have you dancing with me by then end of the night," he says confidently.

He won't. And Mickey shouts that at him over the music when they make their way back out.

Both Dylan and Ian are bobbing their heads to the music, leaning to speak into each other's ear every few seconds. Mickey doesn't like it. They're too close. He moves away from Jake and over to them, playfully pushes his way between them, taking the red plastic cup from Ian.

He frowns at it. "What are we, at a fuckin' frat party?"

"Apparently it's a mix of everything good," Ian shouts into his ear, breath warming his already over-heated neck.

Ian doesn't move back very far when Mickey turns towards him, putting their faces only a few inches apart. Mickey's eyes are instantly drawn to Ian's lips. He bites the corner of his own before looking away and taking a swig of the drink. Ian doesn't move away.

...

Despite all the excess energy, the other line of coke he does, and Jake's demands, Mickey does not dance. He stays by one wall and mocks Dylan and his flailing limbs with Ian. They're both on their way to being shit faced, at that stage where fucking everything is funny.

Mickey is still really aware of how close Ian is to him. They've gone from both leaning back against the wall to Ian only leaning his shoulder against it, his chest touching Mickey's arm. It feels good. Ian feels good being this close to him. It feels good to have Ian's eyes on him, constantly flicking between his eyes and lips.

Ian laughs loud and so fucking infectious when Mickey stumbles over his words, trying to complain about his empty cup. He backhands Ian's chest as he takes a step away, his hand resting for a moment too long. Or not long enough. Mickey isn't so sure right now.

They get their drinks free because they know Jake, which is probably why Mickey's so drunk. "Hey, how come i's blue now?" Mickey asks, voice slurred, frowning down at the contents of his cup.

Shoving his shoulder against Mickey's, Ian laughs again. Fuck, Mickey likes the sound of it so much. "Diff'rent drink, idiot."

"Fuck you, firecrotch," Mickey mumbles.

"Huh? Firecrotch?"

"Yep," Mickey says, the 'p' making a popping sound. Their foreheads are almost touching now that Ian's leaned closer, watching Mickey's lips as he speaks. "Guessin' the collar matches the cuffs," he snorts.

Ian's face turns serious when he says, "Could always find out", his voice sounding perfectly clear.

Mickey reels his head back slightly, squints. He can't tell if Ian's being serious. But he obviously isn't because he's fucking straight, Mickey's mind supplies. Ian is straight and with his sister and just because he doesn't freak out about being close to Mickey doesn't make him gay. It doesn't. Just look at Dylan.

But then Ian's face breaks out into a huge shit-eating grin and Mickey punches his arm. Aims to, actually. Misses and gets Ian's chest.

And then Dylan's wrapping his long arms around them both and dragging them into the crowd.

...

When they leave an hour later, Mickey is still feeling fucking awesome. He never actually suffers from come downs, like it's in his blood or some shit. Whatever, he's laughing his ass off and trying to squirm out of the the bear hug Dylan's wrapped him up in from behind and he doesn't even care. Doesn't care that they've just bumped into a couple of guys and Dylan's now biting his neck.

"Hey, fucking fags! Watch it!" One of them shouts and that's it. That's what does it.

Dylan immediately lets go when Mickey growls, "Get the fuck off me". Mickey's so angry, he's practically vibrating with it. Fuck them. Fuck them for saying that shit. But Mickey's glad, he's been aching for a fight for a long time.

"You wanna say that again?" He shouts at their retreating backs.

They both turn around and the one who heckled raises his eyebrows and smirks. He actually fucking swaggers over and Mickey licks his lips, smiles. This guy thinks 'cause he takes it up the ass he's a pussy?

"Why don't you and your little boyfriends run along, kicking the shit out of you would be like hitting a girl and I'm-"

He doesn't get a chance to finish. Mickey's knee connects with his stomach and he hunches forward coughing and cursing. Always wind them first. Hits to the face are easy to recover from. Smiling, eyes wide, Mickey grabs a fistful of the asshole's hair and slams his knee into his face, not caring about the blood that splatters over his jeans.

"Mickey, hey, dude, come on, leave it." That's Dylan. It doesn't calm him like it usually would. Mickey's too fired up.

The guy's now spluttering, blood pouring from his nose. Mickey pulls his head back and up. "I didn't quite catch that," he says before pushing him away and knocking him to the ground. Mickey straddles his hips, easily knocks the guy's friends hands away when he tries to pull Mickey away. Ignoring Dylan's shouts his name, Mickey lays into the fucking asshole, punching him, busting his lip, smearing blood all over his own fists.

"Fuck, stop it." And that isn't Dylan. There are hands pulling at his shoulders with strength that Dylan doesn't possess. That isn't why Mickey stands, though. "It's not worth it, okay?" Ian says quietly into his ear, an arm now around Mickey's chest.

It is worth it. It's worth beating the shit out of some homophobe because someone fucking should. Mickey nods and lets himself get steered away.

**#**

Mickey slams his locker shut, ready to get the fuck out of here. Why he even bothered coming in for a fucking gym class, he has no clue, but he's leaving right the fuck now.

His hand is on the doorhandle when Sam says, all excited, "Mick, come over here."

"Fuck's sake, I'm goin' home, man." Sam is thick as shit, hard as nails, and one of the rare few who actually like Mickey. Go figure.

"Nah, you're gonna wanna see this." Mickey looks at him, takes in the sight of him in just his boxers and frowns. "We got that scrawny kid, y'know, the weird one. Total faggot, man." He takes a step back, smiling even wider. "Come help us teach him a lesson."

Mickey has to consciously keep his face neutral. He's known about himself for a while now. Hasn't done anything about it, fuck that. The risk of getting caught is too much and for what? So he can actually get off whilst looking at the person. Not fucking worth it.

Still, it doesn't mean Mickey wants to beat on some kid who probably isn't even a fag, who probably can't even fight back. Now Mickey isn't a fair fighter but that doesn't mean he goes for guys smaller than him just so he can win. That's a pussy move. That doesn't matter here; this kid could be fucking ten feet tall and Sam and his buddies would still find some way to beat the shit out of him. Why wouldn't they expect Mickey, a Milkovich no less, to do the same?

So he drops his bag, cracks his knuckles and sneers. "Where is he?"

Sam nods, guides Mickey to the back of the locker room. There sits what is such a skinny kid - not a kid, the same age as Mickey, but fuck, he's so skinny. Maybe it's because he's shit scared, but he looks tiny. Hunched in on himself in only his jeans, shoulder blades protruding.

There are three of Sam's friends crowding around him, snickering and mumbling slurs under their breath, quiet, but loud enough to be heard. Mickey wants to bolt. He knows he can't. Knows how that would make him look.

Sam pushes a friend out of the way then punches the kid across the face. The blow sends him to the ground. Sam looks up at Mickey, expectant. And because he's supposed to, Mickey straddles the kid. The look he's sent fucking kills him and he turns his face away for a split second before he pulls himself together, raises a fist and slams it into his face.

Mickey does what he's supposed to do and beats the kid until he's a mess of blood and tears, ignores how his cries of pain echo through the room, and how it's his own face he's picturing his fist connecting with.

**#**

There's a lot of someone else's blood on him. That's what Mickey eventually realises when he's cleaning his hands in the kitchen sink. Zoe was panicked when she first saw him and it surprised Mickey because she's been avoiding him just as mush as he has her. She calmed down when Dylan explained how Mickey didn't even get hit a single time.

"But this place, babe," Dylan goes on, fucking singing the clubs praises, "was so cool. You would've loved it."

Zoe's laugh sounds fake to Mickey's ears. He hasn't calmed down. Dylan thinks he has; he's never been good at telling when Mickey's genuinely angry, doesn't get how that part of his mind works. Ian, on the other hand, is still hovering around him. Like, what, does he fucking expect Mickey to lose it again? Not like it isn't likely. Ian understands that, though. Anger. How it can eat away at you until you're not even sure who or what you're angry at anymore, just that you are.

He gladly takes the bag of frozen peas Ian gives him. They soothe the burning of his knuckles.

"Well, like I said, I just wasn't feeling it tonight. I probably wouldn't have been any fun." Zoe's lying to Dylan's face right now. Bullshit excuses just falling from her mouth like it's fucking nothing.

They're sat all nice and cosy on the couch and the anger builds in Mickey once again. He faintly hears Ian say his name.

"Not whilst you ain't drinkin', right?" Mickey says, voice hard and unwavering.

Mickey hasn't ever seen someone turn pale before, thought it was just a figure of speech. Zoe proves him wrong. He walks so that he's inbetween the living area and kitchen, both Zoe and Dylan in his sight.

"You're not drinkin'?" Dylan asks, rubbing at his eyes, clearly worn out.

Not letting Zoe lie her way out of this, Mickey speaks up. "No, not whilst she's carryin' your baby."

It'd be comical in any other situation: the double-take Dylan does and his eyes widening. This isn't any other situation, though, and so it doesn't make Mickey laugh, it makes him even angrier.

"You fucking..." Zoe looks just as angry. Like she has a right to. "Dylan, Dylan, don't."

Dylan's already stood up and pacing in front of her. "You're pregnant? Why din't you tell me? Think I'd be mad?" Mickey can't tell how Dylan's taking this.

"I just - I didn't know how to tell you, okay? There was never a good time."

"Well how about the day you found out?" Dylan yells, arm outstretched. "How about the same fucking day you told Mickey!"

"I didn't mean to - Dylan just sit," she scoots to the edge of the couch, nervously touching her nose ring. "He was there when I figured it out and so he came with me to get some tests, okay? I didn't want to do that alone, I'm not sorry about that."

With a scoff, Dylan shakes his head at her then pushes his hair back off of his face. "No, right." Then Dylan's looking at Mickey. "Thanks, dude," he says sarcastically. "Thanks for being there for her and then fucking keeping it to yourself!"

What the fuck? Mickey wasn't planning on joining in on this argument, but Dylan's mad at him? Mickey figured he'd be a little pissed but Dylan looks murderous right now. "No, fuck that, man! You don't get to be pissed at me!"

"No? You kept this from me!"

"And why exactly did I do that? 'Cause your girlfriend asked me to, fucking trusted me to stay quiet! And you know - you know what I'm like with shit like this. Keeping goddamn secrets, lying. So fuck you!"

Dylan's hands fly to the coffee table ready to flip it before Zoe takes hold of his hands. He lets her pull him down to the couch and Mickey's had e-fucking-nough of this. He throws down the bag of peas and storms out.

...

Mickey's been outside for too long. He's fucking freezing and it's about three in the morning. Around his feet are half a dozen cigarette stubs, in his mouth a newly lit one. He's calmed down enough so that he longer wants to kill someone but he still won't go back up to the apartment, not yet.

When he hears the door to the apartments open and close, he slides over to one side so that he isn't sat in the middle of the stoop.

Not like there was any need because it's Ian who sits beside him, Mickey's parka in his arms.

Mickey's not even a little drunk now. He's completely sober and he still wants Ian closer, wants that fucking mouth on his. Mickey sighs, bows his head.

He startles when his coat is put over his shoulders. And then does again when Ian takes his left hand in his. Frowning, Mickey stares as Ian inspects his knuckles, sucks in a breath when his palm is flattened.

Ian's eyes dart to his before falling to Mickey's mouth then back at his hand. "Doesn't look so bad."

He doesn't drop Mickey's hand right away and Mickey doesn't want him to. This thing with Ian is dangerous. He doesn't know what the fuck it is, but he knows that much.


	11. Chapter 11

The gym, Mickey comes to realise, is actually a really good stress reliever. He can spend an hour on the treadmill, just running, and it makes it a bit better. Instead of thinking about Dylan not speaking to him, barely even fucking looking at him, he can focus on the gradual burn he feels in his thighs.

He doesn't only work out, though. Ian's job is simple as shit and he rarely has to actually do anything so he and Mickey spend a lot of time in his office. Mickey finds out that Ian has a piss poor poker face but is crazy good at blackjack. Ian hates drinking out of cans and sandwiches with the crusts still on. He also has to wear a navy polo with the gym's name, Cartwright's, written on it in small white lettering. Mickey teases him about it relentlessly. But it looks great on him. Really, horribly fucking great.

It's probably the stupidest thing Mickey could do; hanging out with Ian so much is proving to just make him want to fuck the guy. Which is just. Wrong. So fucking wrong because he's Mandy's boyfriend.

Mickey puts it down to stress. The stress of having his best friend and another good friend no longer talking to him. Obviously he's going to feel even closer to the one person who doesn't think he's a complete dick.

But, because he's Mickey, he just feels guilty about it - a feeling he's getting incredibly familiar with lately. So he lets this guy fuck him in a shower cubicle when it's ten minutes until closing time and barely anyone is about. It doesn't make him feel better. Makes him feel kind of dirty. But fuck it, because at least he isn't horny when he and Ian walk back to the apartment.

It happens a couple more times in the next two weeks. Once with the same guy and then he shares hurried, messy mutual handjobs with one of the personal trainers. The man is married, has two children. Mickey's beyond giving a shit.

He knows he's maybe falling back into old ways. He goes out at least three times a week with Jake and his friends, getting wasted and into fights. So much has just gone to shit and Mickey feels like he doesn't have any control over things. He hates that. Reminds him of how it used to be. He doesn't know what to do to make Dylan and Zoe speak to him again and so he's now bypassed being sort of sad about it and is now just pissed. He doesn't know what to do so that he doesn't want Ian. The gym helps, but not enough.

He just - fuck. He just wants to fucking forget. For a little while at least.

...

It's midnight when he gets home, his lip busted and knuckles aching.

Mandy looks over at him from the kitchen. He hasn't seen her in a few days. She's always so busy.

"Hey," she says, "Dylan wants to talk to you."

Squinting, Mickey looks her up and down. "Yeah?"

She nods. "He's in his room with a bottle of red," she explains, clearly confused.

Mickey isn't, though. The red wine always comes out when Dylan's feeling emotional or wants to have a heart to heart. Mainly because it gets him drunk real quick, like he's never tasted alcohol before.

For a moment, Mickey weighs his options. He could go straight to his room and ignore the fact that Dylan wants to actually speak to him for the first time in nearly three weeks. Or he could get over it and speak with Dylan and maybe get his life back to normal.

Then Mandy says, "Don't be a dick, go talk to him", before disappearing into her room.

So Mickey toes off his boots, just breathes for a little while, then slowly opens Dylan's bedroom door. He's sat on the bed, his long legs crossed and his laptop atop them. The bottle of wine on his bedside table looks like only a couple of swigs have been taken from it. Mickey doesn't know if that's good or bad.

For several long, awkward seconds, they stare at each other. Mickey can't decipher the look on Dylan's face. It's unsettling.

But then Dylan's surging up off the bed and taking long strides until he's right in front of Mickey and enveloping him in his arms. Mickey falls back against the door with the force of it, his breath crushed out of him.

"Fuck, dude, I'm so fuckin' sorry, ya hear me? I'm sorry - God, I'm a piece of shit. You din't even do anythin' wrong, dude." Dylan's rambling against his head, words rushing out of him. "Zoe's goin' crazy without you, me too. She's such a stubborn ass, but she's sorry."

"Alright, man," Mickey says, smile on his face. "It's all good." He wraps his arms a little tighter around Dylan's waist. "I'm sorry, too."

Breathlessly, Dylan laughs against him. He sounds relieved. Mickey is, too.

He playfully shoves at Dylan until he backs off.

"Look like shit," Dylan says, small smile on his face. He lightly prods at Mickey's cut lip. "Hate it when you fight. And I swear to God you better stop goin' out with Jake so much." Mickey frowns at that and Dylan puts up a hand. "Hey, I like the dude, but I know that you always take shit when you go out with him."

Mickey smirks; parental, protective Dylan is always amusing. "And you'd know that how?"

"'Cause I know people. And you always look like death the mornin' after."

That is true. Mickey shrugs, moves around Dylan to sit on his bed. The blanket covering it is some ugly ass green thing with a map of Texas on it. It looks awful with Dylan's blood-red walls but the idiot refuses to get rid of it.

After taking a drink of the wine, Mickey says, "Kinda lost it a bit. Y'know, it just - things were shitty." When Dylan nervously scratches at his bare arm, Mickey sighs. "Come on, man. They were. And we all know that I don't deal with shit well. Or at all." Well fuck, Zoe would be proud of that insight.

Dylan smiles sadly at him and apologises again before swiping the wine from him after Mickey jokes, "I can't be sober for when you start tearing up", and nearly spilling it everywhere when he collapses on top of Mickey.

Mickey groans from underneath him but doesn't protest too much. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, he's missed being close with Dylan, missed the casual way Dylan touches him, hugs him. Dylan's probably too fucking tactile for his own good.

They end up getting drunk on the wine, falling asleep fully clothed, their legs tangled together.

...

When Zoe finds them the next morning she decides to be a fucking bitch and blasts The Safety Dance from Dylan's laptop. Mickey ends up getting a knee to the balls and an elbow to his chest because Dylan has no fucking control over his damn limbs when he's startled.

Zoe tells them to stop their homosexual snuggling and eat the pancakes she made. That's the first sign that Zoe's trying to apologise. She barely ever cooks - which should be a fucking crime - so when she does it's always for a reason.

Plus the pancakes have little chocolate chips in them and that's like crack for Mickey.

He sits beside Mandy and across from Ian, lifts his lips in a small smile in response to Ian's.

"You guys settle it?" Mandy asks, mouth filled with pancakes.

Mickey hums affirmatively around his own mouthful and has to bite back on a moan because, shit, these pancakes are good.

Zoe is looking very pleased where she's stood leaning up against Dylan with her glass of orange juice. Though he wants to, Mickey doesn't ask her about how the pregnancy is going. A few times, when he's actually been at the apartment, he's heard her throwing up, but that's normal shit. Nothing to worry about. But Dylan's an even bigger worrier than Mickey is, so if anything had gone wrong, Dylan would've told him.

Stealing a bit of Ian's pancake, Mandy gets up and puts her dishes into the sink. She only just misses Mickey's elbow when she actually ruffles his hair and kisses Ian's temple when she passes and leaves for work at the salon.

It's sort of disgusting how sweet Dylan and Zoe are. Like, they were pretty affectionate before but now they've practically got fucking hearts in their eyes when they look at each other.

Dylan takes hold of the hand Zoe has on his shoulder and leans down so that his face is eye-level with her stomach. "Hey li'l ducklin', you havin' a good mornin'?" he coos, before placing a kiss just above Zoe's belly button.

"The fuck was that?" Mickey asks incredulously, smirking at Zoe's fond, but amused, look and Ian's snort of laughter.

Dylan straightens up, smiling wide. "I am talking to my unborn child, Michael," he states in his best English accent.

Mickey hums sarcastically. "Right, yeah, you mean the baby whose ears haven't even formed yet? You mean that one?"

Nodding, Dylan gives him the finger and continues to eat his breakfast.

They all eat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes: Ian doing shit on his phone; the fucking star-crossed lovers in their own little world; and Mickey still getting over good the pancakes because seriously - so damn good.

Ian's the one who breaks the silence when he asks if he's going to the gym later.

"Yeah, probably, but fuck you if you think I'm gonna work out." He's still pretty sore from last night.

"Maybe if you didn't pick so many fights..." Ian trails off with a lazy stretch and knowing smile.

Stopping himself from eyeing the slither of skin that shows as Ian's wife-beater rides up, Mickey flips him off and says, "Go put on your little work outfit".

Ian just smiles and puts his empty plate on top of Mickey's. "Whatever, shut up and do my dishes." He scurries away, laughing, when Mickey aims the dishcloth at his head.

Once Mickey stops staring at Ian's ass he realises that he too is being stared at. Dylan looks back down at his plate when Mickey raises an eyebrow at him but Zoe just keeps on staring in that crazed, calculating way.

"What?" Mickey barks, uncomfortable.

With a little smile - that is so fucking bitchy, it's unreal - Zoe shrugs. "Nothing. Just... interesting."

Mickey wants to ask her what is interesting but he thinks it's probably best that he doesn't. So instead he gets up, puts both his and Ian's dishes into the sink and goes off to get dressed.

...

Ian is halfway through explaining to Mickey his job isn't just an excuse to sit on his ass all day and do nothing when the door swings open. From where he's sat across from Ian, feet propped up on the desk, Mickey tilts his head back and gets an upside down view of the married dude he fooled around with. He snaps his head back up too fast for it to look anything but suspicious and ignores whatever conversation he and Ian have.

He flinches when a hand drops to his shoulder and he bites his lip at the view of a wedding ring.

"Good to see you again," the guy - Mickey thinks his name is Richard - says and, without looking at him, Mickey nods.

"You know he's married, right?" Is what Ian says when they're alone again.

Rolling his eyes, Mickey flicks his eyes up to look at Ian's face. "Yeah," he says with a shrug.

Ian leans back in his chair, scoffing. "That doesn't bother you?"

"I ain't the one cheatin', he is. Don't bother tryin' to make me feel guilty, man, it won't work." They stare at each other for a long time and Mickey realises that Ian doesn't exactly look judgmental or pissed off. He looks annoyed. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing," Ian says quickly. "Whatever." He stands abruptly and speeds towards the office door. "Wanna coffee?" He asks, his face turned away from Mickey.

Screwing up his face in confusion, Mickey says, "No", and watches Ian leave, slamming the door behind him. Confused as all get out, Mickey slumps down in his chair and fiddles with the fraying seams of his jeans.

...

Even though he'd like to, Mickey doesn't hang out with Ian for much longer. There's this odd, uncomfortable feeling between them and Mickey has no clue what it's about. Ian knows he sleeps around. So he fucked about with a married guy, so fucking what? Certainly isn't the worst thing Mickey's ever done and Ian knows that.

But Ian still keeps giving him these looks and Mickey gets fed up of it so he leaves, walks back to the apartment. Dylan is napping on the couch with a blanket over him, his hair all over his face.

After taking a picture of him, Mickey gets himself a coke from the fridge and plops down beside him, turning on the tv as he does.

Dylan stirs a bit, murmuring. He squints his eyes open and looks over at Mickey like he's never seen him before in his life. "Wha' you doin' home?" he mumbles, words slurred from sleep. "Thought you an' Ian had a date." Fucker even snorts at his own joke.

Ignoring the second part, Mickey says, "Got bored and Ian got all stupid". He wonders if Dylan knows about his huge fucking hard-on for Ian. And if he doesn't, whether should he tell him or not. He can't imagine it'd do much. Dylan would probably give him shit for wanting to bone his sister's boy but then would say to talk to Zoe about it. Which - just fucking no. Talking to Zoe about it would just result in both of them getting pissed off at each other. Their 'talks' rarely end well.

Dylan says something too muffled for Mickey to make out and snuggles closer to rest his head on Mickey's shoulder. The position they're in is one they've been in dozens of times before, but this time Mickey can't help the small smile that spreads into a full on grin.

Mickey's had friends, he has. But they weren't like this; he could never get so close to his old friends. Fighting was fine, expected even, but a casual, friendly hug? A pat on the back, a hand on your shoulder? That shit was enough to earn you a fist to the face. And, back then, Mickey would've punched someone for touching him like that.

Mickey moves his arm around Dylan's shoulders so that Dylan doesn't get a crick in his neck.

**#**

The fresh, warm smell of blood fills Mickey's nostrils. He looks down at the still, beaten body by his feet then over to Sam. He's snarling and smiling at the same time. His face looks fucking evil.

On the floor, probably fucking concussed, is their friend. Rocky may even be Mickey's best friend and Mickey's known him since they were five. The nickname is, like, ironic or some shit because Rocky's the nicest kid you could ever meet. Too nice, actually; he doesn't belong here, with them, in this fucking neighborhood.

None of that matters, though. He's lying bloody at Mickey's feet and none of that fucking matters at all.

"Mickey! You comin' or what?" Sam says. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood over his cheek. Mickey doesn't know if it's his own or Rocky's and he wants to fucking scream.

He looks back down at Rocky. He looks so little. They're only thirteen and neither of them have had their growth spurt but Mickey has muscle mass and Rocky really doesn't. He isn't a fighter. Wasn't made for that.

"Yo! Mickey!" Sam playfully slaps at his face.

"We just gonna leave him?" Mickey asks, nodding down at the motionless body. Fuck, has Sam even fucking acknowledged what he's done?

Shrugging, Sam says, "Yeah", like it's the most obvious thing ever.

And Mickey wants to say that no, they aren't, but Sam is a lot bigger than him, could take him on easy and Mickey doesn't need that shit. He's not fucking scared of Sam - dude's an idiot - but getting his ass handed to him won't help anything. And Sam kisses his ass like he's getting paid for it. It helps having him on his side.

So, glancing down at Rocky one last time, Mickey makes his way out from the alleyway, Sam close behind him.

He tries to forget that his best friend is lying in an alley, unconscious and bleeding, because of some pot he lost.

**#**

He gets into an argument with Ian a few days later. They haven't really been speaking all that much since that weird office incident. Ian's been the one who's getting all up on his high horse over it, like he hasn't done shit that isn't strictly good. Guy is a fucking Gallagher, for fucks sake.

So Mickey snaps when Ian makes a snide comment about whether Mickey's going to fuck any more of his married colleagues. He whirls around from where he was washing up to face Ian's back. "What the fuck is your problem?" he shouts, getting the attention of Dylan and Zoe who are sat together on the couch.

"You making it awkward for me where I work," Ian snaps, spreading peanut butter on his toast so aggressively he may as well be fucking stabbing at it. "I can't even look at Richard in the face."

"What, 'cause he's a fag?" Mickey spits, not even aware of what he's saying or why.

The look Ian shoots his way is downright murderous. It should not a turn him on. "I can't - no! Fuck, you _know_ I'm not like that. But, it's just fucking weird. His wife came in yesterday with their six-year-old and all I could picture was him and - it's just weird." He turns his back to Mickey then, carries on spreading that disgusting crap on his burnt toast.

Unbelievably irritated, Mickey goes back to his washing up and takes it all out on the plates and bowls and spoons, splashing water up his arms and on the counter. He has to stop halfway through because apparently he's the only one who believes in washing up and practically all the plates, cups and cutlery they own need to be cleaned.

He's drying a plate when Ian comes into view at his side.

"Look, sorry, alright? But," he sighs, "can you not fuck the people I work with?"

"Tellin' me who I can and cannot fuck? Nice," Mickey grumbles, bending down to put the plate away.

"I'm not telling you, I'm asking you."

"Difference bein'?" Mickey asks, finally looking at him.

A small smile settles over Ian's face and Mickey already knows he's won whatever this was. "Stop being a dick," Ian says, lighthearted, shoving his plate into Mickey's hand.

Mickey snatches it from him, the movement probably too flirty and playful but he doesn't care because he thinks Ian might be over it now.

Ian takes the dishcloth from Mickey's other hand and his arm rubs against Mickey's as he moves to Mickey's other side. He picks up a handful of spoons and begins to dry them, all the while with a pleased smirk on his face.

Expectantly, he glances at Mickey. "Are you gonna keep staring at me or actually do something?" His eyes move down Mickey's body and Mickey spends a few panicked seconds thinking that Ian's looking at his crotch before he remembers the plate in his hands.

"Shut up," Mickey says, unable to think of anything better to say.

He's unsure of why he can't stop shooting quick glances at Ian. That's bullshit. He does know. And he should just fucking stop it because what's going on his head won't be good for anyone. Only Ian is looking at him too and he's still got that smirk on his face and Mickey doesn't know what to do.

...

Being the third wheel is something Mickey will never, ever get used to (maybe he's been one for the last two years, but it's only now official and that makes it worse). He isn't one of those attention whores that need all of the attention on them at all times and he isn't jealous that his best friend has a girlfriend or any of that shit.

What Mickey can't get used to - doesn't even fucking want to - is how Dylan and Zoe get about a million times more annoying when they're together. Not necessarily all the time. But when they're cuddling together and being what most people would probably label as 'cute'? Yeah, they are annoying as fuck.

Mickey is about a third of the way through Inception - Jake couldn't believe he'd never seen it, almost lost his shit - and the lovebirds nestled under a blanket on the couch cannot stop talking to each other. Like it isn't bad enough that they've taken up the entire couch and Mickey was forced to sit on the beanbag.

He's slowly been working his way through the long list of films Jake wrote up for him, labeled '_omg I can't believe you haven't watched these, watch them!_' . He didn't think much of Forrest Gump. The Big Lebowski, however, he fucking loved.

And Mickey isn't stupid, not by a long shot, but Inception is a film that you need to pay attention to. What's more, Mickey wants to! It's pretty fucking sick as far as he's concerned, all that dream within a dream shit. He's liking it a lot and he wants to order Dylan and Zoe out of the apartment for being such noisy assholes, but he can't even do that because then Dylan's calling his name.

"What?" he snaps, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"Ian's straight, right?"

Now that _does_ have Mickey shooting a puzzled look at Dylan. "He's with Mandy," he says slowly, Dylan can't be that dumb, "is actually out with her now."

Then Zoe decides to put her two cents in. "For a gay man you're incredibly ignorant of the range of sexualities out there. He could be bi." She nuzzles further into Dylan's neck and sighs happily.

Dismissive, Mickey shakes his head. "Whatever," he tells her, then looks back at Dylan. "Why the fuck are you asking?"

"He gives you the eye sometimes," Dylan says casually.

Mickey may actually be fucking gaping right now because what? Mickey knows when someone is checking him out or whatever and Ian hasn't. Not once. "Fuck off, no he doesn't."

And Mickey sort of wants to slap Dylan because he pulls that sarcastic face when he says, "Okay then, he doesn't".

"He fucking doesn't."

Biting back a smile, Dylan says, "Fuck, alright", and, like, all of a sudden decides he's really interested in the movie.

"Except he totally does," Zoe adds a few seconds later before irritating Mickey even further by discussing where they're going to go tonight. Even though she can't drink.

He gives up trying to get back into the movie and gangs up on Dylan with Zoe when he suggest they just go to Paul's.

...

When Mandy and Ian get back from dinner, Zoe orders them to say in their nice clothes because they're going out. Neither of them argue and Mickey barks out a laugh at Ian's very obviously intimidated look. A pregnant Zoe is a scary Zoe.

They end up just going to Synergy because they can get into the VIP area for free and will get half price drinks. None of them are exactly poor but they don't exactly enjoy spending money. Least of all on alcohol.

Walking through the crowds, Mickey nods his head at a small group of their friends who all come over. He gets lost in conversation with them, along with Dylan, as they're let into the VIP area. It's not all that much, Mickey thinks. It's slightly quieter and more intimate than the bar or the dance floor, but there are always a shit ton of people in it, most of them probably not allowed in there.

Zoe leads them to a corner table at the back. The cushioned, maroon seat is C-shaped and around and a large square table, gleaming white. Mickey sits and immediately brings a foot up so that he can rest his arm on his knee.

Though he isn't actually supposed to, Mickey lights up a cigarette and takes a deep inhale. Tons of people are probably dropping E so Mickey having a smoke should be the least of the security's worries. Plus he's pretty tight with them.

Groaning, loud enough to be heard over the music, Zoe lets her head fall to Dylan's shoulder. She picks up her drink. "I have never hated orange juice as much in my life as I do right now," she says.

"What else was I supposed to get you, babe?" Dylan asks before he takes his shot and passes Mickey, Ian and Mandy theirs.

Mickey watches them bicker for a little while longer. Then they start sticking their tongues down each others' throats and Mickey's seen enough of that to last him a lifetime. He zones in on Mandy bitching about the bitches she works with. He's hit with a wave of pride for his sister; he's not the only one who's made something decent of his life.

"And that skank," she goes on, directed at Mickey, "Nancy or something, keeps asking me about you." She's barely containing a laugh now, trying to hide her smile behind her beer bottle.

"Well why don't you tell her that so long as she has a cunt I won't be goin' anywhere near her," Mickey says, flicking ash into the ashtray Clive had put down with a smirk and shake of his bald head.

Beside him, Ian chuckles and says into his beer, "That oughta do it". Mickey shrugs one shoulder and smiles toothily at him. Ian's lips wrap around the rim of the bottle and when he takes a drink, his head tilts back a bit, enough to reveal the long, pale line of his neck.

But Mickey isn't even looking at it, his eyes too busy staring right back into Ian's.

He snaps out of it pretty quickly, aware of just how many people are around. Fucking gazing into Ian's eyes isn't a good idea. Least of all in front of his girlfriend. Who is also Mickey's sister. Jesus.

He doesn't think twice before he leans towards Ian as Ian puts his mouth to Mickey's ear. "Get the next round of shots with me," he says, lingering close for a moment too long.

Mickey nods, stands up after Ian and puts his middle finger up at Dylan without even looking at him because he knows the bastard is smiling all smug.

...

"So, you live far from here?"

Mickey smirks at that. Matt, a friend of Zoe's Mickey's never met before, has been eyeing him all night. This is the first time he's spoken to him.

"Nah, man, not really," Mickey answers, leaning back and sprawling his legs open even wider.

Matt nods, fiddling with a button on his navy shirt. Taking the opportunity to give him a good once over, Mickey lets his eyes focus on the messily styled brown hair and his dark eyes, the broadness of his shoulders and his lean, muscled legs.

"I live pretty far," he says and he looks at Mickey then and fuck, if his face doesn't scream 'fuck me'. It takes a lot for Mickey to not just lean in a little closer and press their mouths together; taste him. He looks over at Ian and decides that there's no reason to hold back. No fucking reason at all.

Matt makes a low, surprised noise but quickly winds his hand up Mickey's chest and rests it on the back of his neck. He licks at Mickey's bottom lip, and Mickey opens his mouth, twists their tongues together, letting the kiss get completely dirty.

"Wanna leave?" Mickey asks, their lips still touching.

"Yeah." Matt pulls back and looks around. "Just gimme a sec, I need to tell my friends."

Wordlessly, Mickey nods, watches his ass as he goes and then stands. He makes a little hand motion in Dylan's direction and the message must get across because all Dylan does is wink and give him a thumbs up.

He isn't expecting Ian to waltz right up to him and ask, "You're taking him home?"

Mickey frowns. "Yeah," he drawls, amused. "Why?"

Ian is uncharacteristically fidgety; he keeps looking at Mickey then turning his head to look at the people surrounding them, his eyes flicking between Mickey's and the floor. Mickey wonders if he's taken something.

"You don't even know him," Ian finally says, speaking to Mickey's feet.

Mickey shakes his head in incredulity. Christ, he though they were over this - Ian's stupid judgement over who he has sex with. "'Cause you know the name, address and fucking social security number of everyone you ever fucked?" He sighs, looking toward the ceiling, then takes a step closer. "Don't fucking judge me, man."

"I'm not judging you, but..." Ian hunches his shoulders, mouth still open.

"What?" Mickey spits. "Jealous?" He isn't even sure why he said that. But Ian... Ian isn't denying it. And suddenly the music seems too loud and Mickey feels claustrophobic in his own skin and he needs to leave before he kisses Ian or punches him square in the face.

When he pushes past Ian he ignores Matt shouting, asking where he's going. He just heads for the door.


	12. Chapter 12

At nine in the morning, Mickey leaves the apartment. It's the earliest he's woken up in a long time. He slings his duffel bag over his shoulder and takes a deep drag of his cigarette, blows the smoke up into the sky until it dissipitates.

He walks the fifteen minute walk it takes to get to the gym and when he arrives he takes out the white hand towel from his bag. He stuffs his hoodie into a locker along with the bag and heads straight to the treadmill. Mickey doesn't listen to music when he works out, doesn't have some specific playlist for it. He's learnt how to block out any distractions.

But he can't stop his mind from going back to last night, to Ian. Because he knows - now that he's had time to think, to cool down - that the look on Ian's face when he'd asked if he was taking Matt home wasn't one of judgement. He was angry. Ian was angry that Mickey was planning on taking some guy home with him; he was angry that Mickey was going to fuck someone.

And why would he be angry? Why should he? Mickey was up for hours just racking his brain trying to think of a reason. Dylan's never gotten pissed over him taking guys home. Zoe only complains about what it might do to him mentally or some shit, but that isn't the same. She doesn't get angry about it.

Ian was angry and Mickey can't think of why he would've been if it weren't jealousy. Which is fucking insane. But - what Zoe and Dylan had said about Ian looking at him doesn't seem so crazy now. Mickey never really thought much about the way Ian looks at him because it's not like it'd do any good. But last night he went over all the times he's caught Ian watching him or the times when their conversations have lulled into silence and they share these fucking _smiles. _He was so sure that the attraction or whatever the fuck it's been was one-sided. Now, though, he thinks maybe we was wrong.

Mickey clenches his hands into fists, runs faster.

So does that mean Ian's gay? Or is he bi? Does Mandy know? Mickey nearly trips over his feet at that thought: Mandy. Christ. Does Mandy know that her fucking boyfriend probably wants in her brother's pants? That he might, like, bat for the other team? He doesn't know what possibility is worse: that Mandy knows and either doesn't care or thinks it'll just pass; or that she doesn't have a clue. Maybe ignorance is bliss. But, then again, maybe fucking not.

A woman in a bright pink sports bra and yoga pants steps up to the treadmill beside him. She pulls her long, blonde hair back into a high ponytail then smiles at Mickey, says, "Hey", like they know each other.

Mickey nods at her, say hi back and hates that he isn't attracted to her. Because she's gorgeous. He can see that. And fuck, it'd be so much easier. He'd never have to worry about wanting his sister's boyfriend if he were straight.

With a sigh, Mickey stops himself there. He can't go down that road again; daydreaming about how shit would be simpler if he were into women. Too long he's spent thinking like that.

He increases the speed on his treadmill, blocks out every over-muscled man lifting weights and the tiny women in low-cut vests pretending to work out. He doesn't think about Ian. He doesn't.

...

His t-shirt is sticking to his back, basketball shorts too, now that he's sat down. The gym café is small and practically abandoned. Probably because of how fucking uncomfortable the shitty plastic chairs are, Mickey thinks, annoyed.

He sips at his smoothie, some mango thing that was on offer, and fiddles with the burnt bits of his panini that he didn't eat. He's quite content to simply hang out for a little while, chill out before his shift tonight.

What he didn't bank on is Ian walking up behind him then sitting on the chair opposite. No hello, no announcing his presence. He just sits there like he's welcome, like Mickey actually wants him there.

"What the fuck are you doin'?" Mickey asks, aiming for annoyed. He ends up sounding like a whiny bitch.

Ian leans forwards, rests his forearms on the table. Mickey doesn't shift backwards, despite wanting to. "Nothing," Ian says, shrugging. "You?"

Mickey doesn't have a fucking clue what's going on right now. "Nothin'," he replies, eyebrows screwed up.

With a nod, Ian begins ripping up the napkin, stays silent for a long time before he says, "You didn't go home with that guy last night".

Mickey scrubs a hand down his face, suppressing an irritated groan. "A for observation," he says sarcastically.

"How come?"

And just fuck this. Scowling at him, Mickey pushes his chair back from the table and stands, starts walking toward the locker room. He isn't about to answer that because, by now, Ian _must_ know why Mickey didn't. The guy isn't stupid and Mickey's never claimed to be subtle. And he isn't about to talk about fucking feelings right now, he just isn't. If Ian has something to say he can come right out and say it.

The locker room is empty when Mickey slams open the door. He heads straight to his locker but then the door opens, closes and he knows that Ian's followed him in.

"Mickey-"

"Fuck, just fucking don't! Alright?" He doesn't turn around, won't look at him. "You fucking know why, so don't act like you don't!"

A silence settles over them, tense and delicate. Mickey could tell Ian to get out, just leave and forget it. No words leave his mouth, though. Because he wants Ian to stay. He wants Ian to stay and do something - anything to tell Mickey that he isn't alone in this, that he isn't the only who's going kind of crazy with want and fucking need.

The sound of Ian's sneakers on the tiled floor is quiet but, in the silence, it's deafening.

Mickey's heart seems to beat faster with every step Ian takes and he doesn't dare turn around. He knows Ian is right behind him now, can feel him somehow.

"What are you doin', Gallagher?" he asks, resisting the urge to bang his head against the locker.

Placing a hand on Mickey's shoulder, Ian leans in, says, "You know. Don't act like you don't". His breath tickles the nape of Mickey's neck and he'd laugh at how much of a smartass Ian is being if his words didn't hold so much meaning.

He lets himself get turned around slowly, but keeps his eyes firmly down on the ground. That is until Ian steps closer still, their thighs almost touching. Gently, his hands travel up Mickey's arm until they reach his neck. They rest there and Mickey suppresses the urge to shiver.

And when he looks up, Ian is so close that he can see himself reflected in his pupils. It stirs something in him, something he's been trying desperately to bury for weeks. But Ian's thumbs are brushing against his jaw and he can't keep his eyes off of Mickey's lips and Mickey's done. He grabs onto Ian's sides, fingers twisted into his stupid polo shirt.

Ian leans in with it and then their mouths are crashing together and Mickey doesn't bother stopping the quiet moan he lets out. God, Ian kisses like he's trying to find his way inside Mickey; so fucking eager. And Mickey's no better, licking into Ian's mouth and biting down on his bottom lip like he's wanted to do for so long.

Mickey grips Ian's waist even tighter, pulls him in so that they're pushed together. His back slams against metal when Ian surges forward, one thigh pressing between Mickey's. The friction has Mickey groaning, head falling back.

"This," Ian says, breathless, from where he's kissing at Mickey's neck, "this is what Lip meant."

That doesn't make a bit of sense to Mickey at first, his mind too focused on Ian's mouth marking him up and his thigh rubbing against his hardening dick. But then it clicks - Lip wanted Mickey to talk to Ian, about them having something in common.

Mickey is about to say something back - something about how long Ian's known about himself and if he's actually gay and -

And then Ian's biting his bottom lip, tugging at it and Mickey's thoughts turn completely fucking impure. He just wants Ian so fucking much; wants him on him,_ in_ him, everything.

But Ian's muttering between kisses, lips shaping words against Mickey's, and despite the blood rushing around in his head, he can hear. Ian's saying that he doesn't care that this shouldn't be happening, that he shouldn't be doing this. And it hits Mickey like a fist to the face.

He pushes at Ian's chest till he backs off, face flushed and screwed up in confusion.

Mickey thumbs at his bottom lip, straightens his shoulders. He looks Ian up and down and supposes he has a look of disgust on his face if Ian's sad eyes are anything to go by. But he can't. Because if thoughts about Ian were wrong, then actually fucking acting on them is on a whole new level.

When Ian tries to put a hand back to Mickey's cheek, he slaps it away and pushes him back again.

"Don't fucking touch me," he spits, warning clear in his voice. He grits his teeth, turns, then gets his belongings out of the locker as fast as he can. A deep sigh escapes him, all the air leaving his lungs in a slow exhale.

Eyes down, he stalks out of the room.

...

Nobody is home when he gets to the apartment. Luckily for them. Mickey throws his bag down onto the couch, narrowly missing the coffee table, lets out a frustrated groan until it becomes something mirroring a scream. Abruptly, he stops, starts to pace; back and forth, back and forth. His mind is working over every single detail; every move Ian's lips made against his, every noise, every touch. Fucking everything.

But then instead of thinking of him as 'Ian', his mind starts to call him 'Mandy's boyfriend', then 'my sister, Mandy's, boyfriend'. It plays over and over in a loop inside his head until he can't fucking stand it anymore and his fist connects with something.

The bathroom door now has a dent in it. Mickey surveys it for a moment, thinks '_is that it? Is that what this thing inside me looks like on the outside?_' Because it feels so much bigger than that. If Dylan wants to, they can buy a new door, damage forgotten, all forgiven. But what he's done? He can't buy a different set of events, one that doesn't have him feeling shit for Ian, and he can't forget and he won't be forgiven.

He hits the door again, slams his palms against it until his wrists begin to hurt.

...

By the end of his shift, Mickey's surprised he hasn't been fired. He's snapped at nearly every person he's served, nastily shot down every woman who's tried to flirt her way out of paying full price for a drink, and nearly punched two different guys when they continually hit on women who clearly didn't want them to.

It's no surprise to him; he knew he'd be like this. Dylan asked him earlier what happened to the door and all Mickey had said was that he isn't a good mood and for him to just leave it.

And he did - Dylan, for the most part, knows when to push and when not to - but he hasn't stopped sending these concerned glances over at Mickey for the entire night. And Mickey fucking hates it because he and Dylan have only recently gotten back to normal and here he is getting all weird and quiet on him. Keeping shit from him.

But it's not as though Mickey can tell him, is it? How can someone casually bring up the fact that they fucking made out with their own sister's boyfriend? At least without sounding like a complete prick. Which he is anyway.

So Mickey's thankful when it rolls around to two o'clock and he can get his ass back home, into bed. It's doubtful that he'll sleep well, but it'll be better than this.

He lights two cigarettes when he gets outside, wordlessly passes one to Dylan. They walk and smoke in silence for a minute or two (one minute and twelve seconds, Mickey's been counting) before Dylan speaks up.

"Somethin' on your mind?"

Mickey takes a long drag on his cigarette, holds the smoke down until his lungs begin to burn. "Nah," he lies, breathing out the smoke into the night air.

They pass a couple of young girls, can't be older than sixteen. The one with red hair is kneeling on the wet floor, purse soaking up water in a puddle, and the other one is holding back her hair, grimacing. The sound of retching is loud in the silence of the street and it has Mickey smiling sadly to himself.

"Alright then," Dylan says, throwing an arm around Mickey's shoulders. "But don't hold in whatever shit that's gettin' you down for too long, hear me?" He gets Mickey into a lazy headlock, jiggles him about a little.

"Yeah," Mickey mutters, shoving his way out of Dylan's arms, "shut the fuck up before you turn into Zoe." He flicks what's left of his cigarette to the ground, flinches when he feels a drop of water hit his hand.

The sky is too dark for Mickey to properly see, but there's a greyness to it; clouds blocking out any view of the stars.

Dylan mutters an "oh shit" as the light drizzles begin to get heavier. Their speed walking turns into a full on sprint once it really starts to pour down. Dylan lets out a hysterical laugh and Mickey turns to look at him but sees only empty space. Behind him Dylan is pulling the hairband from his hair and shaking his head in slow motion like one of those girls in those shampoo adverts.

The rain momentarily forgotten, Mickey laughs at him, cracks up when Dylan begins to run Baywatch style. And then the distinct sound of thunder echoes around them and they both seem to silently agree to get their asses back home.

...

Mickey is actually fucking shivering, his clothes clinging to him like an unwanted extra layer of skin. He can visibly see that Dylan's no better, his hand too unsteady to unlock the door on the first try. Or the second. Or third.

Suddenly, it swings open and Zoe's looking out at them. She's wearing her NYU sweatshirt and a pair of sweats that clearly don't belong to her.

Her face softens at the sight of them, turns sort of fond even. "You two are so - get in here." She opens the door further, shaking her head like a tired mother.

Mickey grins at her, scoffs when she hits his arm then complains about her wet hand. He immediately begins to strip, not giving a shit that he isn't alone; Zoe and Dylan have seen him naked more times than he'd like.

Only, once his shirt is up over his head, he realises that it isn't only Zoe and Dylan here. Mandy is slouched in the beanbag, curled in on herself and asleep. Which is fine. But Ian is staring from his seat on the couch. Which really fucking isn't.

He'd managed to avoid Ian all day until he had to leave for work, but then he only saw him briefly. So when Ian stands up, begins to walk over, Mickey panics. He knows Ian isn't going to do anything right now. At least he fucking hopes so.

"Towels," Ian says, looking past Mickey and at the bathroom. He walks in then reappears with an armful of them, throws a couple at Dylan, now only in his boxers, before passing the rest to Mickey.

Ian stands back, out of Mickey's personal space but still too close for comfort. Mickey can feel Ian's eyes on him, the weight of them uncomfortable and heavy. He sees that Zoe and Dylan are off in their own little world, Dylan shaking water droplets from his hair like a dog.

Not giving Ian a chance to do anything else, Mickey rushes to his bedroom, grits his teeth when he hears Ian follow him. Always fucking following him when he least wants him to.

He allows Ian to come into his room, though. Lets him close the door behind them because if they're going to have some sort of conversation about what happened - and it seriously seems like they are - he wants it done in private.

The towel feels rough from overuse when he scrubs it across his head and face. He drops it to the ground then begins to unzip his black pants, not giving a shit about what it may or may not do to Ian. He leaves his boxers on, though, damp and uncomfortable.

He puts on the tanktop that's lying on his bed and finally turns to face Ian. He's worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, eyes shifting between Mickey's.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Fine," Mickey says, too fast, he thinks. Ian can probably tell that's a lie.

"The door..." Ian looks down, takes a tentative step forward. It's quiet for a long time. "Why'd you just leave?"

Huffing an incredulous laugh, Mickey thumbs at his lip. "Might've had somethin' to do with the fact that you're my fuckin' _sister's boyfriend_." His voice raises mid-sentence and he has to actively stop himself from yelling. How can Ian not get it? The guy doesn't seem the type to not have any issues about cheating. Then again, up until a matter of hours ago, Mickey didn't think he seemed like the type of guy to go around kissing other guys. So really, what does he know?

"It's not- it isn't like that." Ian holds up a placating hand when Mickey opens his mouth to argue back; it is exactly like that. "What? You think I ever had the intentions of doing this? Because I didn't. I didn't mean to start - I like you. A lot -"

"Stop it," Mickey says, voice low, eyes serious.

Ian shakes his head. "No, okay? I want-"

"It doesn't really fucking matter what you want!" he hisses. "It doesn't matter what I want, or how much I want it; fuck that! It has nothing to do with that because she's my damn sister!" Mickey doesn't know when he began walking closer, slowly getting up in Ian's face, but now they're just inches apart and he can't find it in himself to step away. Fuck.

He watches the way Ian's Adam's apple bobs when he swallows hard. Eyes lingering on his collarbones, Mickey can feel his resolve slipping. It's impossible, he thinks, to not let Ian tell him how he wants him; it's impossible to push him away when Ian puts his hands to Mickey's hips. All of the things he should be doing he can't.

Ian's forehead rests against Mickey's for a long moment. Mickey tilts his head up, firmly kisses Ian before he pulls back again. "You should probably go now," he says, "I'm tired as fuck."

Ian says, "Okay". He says, "G'night", and then he leaves.

He leaves and Mickey can feel his heart pounding in the tips of his fingers.

**#**

Lounging on the bed, fingers playing with the comforter, Mickey wonders what it'd be like to fuck someone he actually cares about. Not love or any of that bullshit. Just a person he actually likes; knows enough to decide whether he likes them or not. Eighteen and he's never actually fucked someone he's cared about. That probably makes him sluttier than Mandy.

He looks over at Jay - the kid whose bed he's in, whose fucked Mickey a couple times - wonders if the sex would feel better if he had feelings for him. Wonders whether he'd come harder, moan louder.

But Mickey knows - he knows that the minute fucking feelings get involved his secret will probably be out and he'd be good as dead. Or actually dead because some fucker would definitely bash his brains in. Likely his dad.

So he settles for the rare times he can actually have sex he enjoys, figures it's worth it. The fuck buddies he stops seeing after only a few times because he can't risk it are enough.

He firmly tells himself that it is enough, that he doesn't need something more.

He actually believes it sometimes.

**#**

He and Ian avoid each other for the next few days. Not completely, but Mickey doesn't hang out in his office at the gym and when they do hang out it's always if there's someone else there with them.

Mickey worries that someone is going to pick up on the weird tension that hangs between them. Okay, not someone - Mickey's worried that Zoe will pick up on it. Because pregnancy hasn't made her any less perceptive. And she's definitely still bitchy enough to make him talk about it if she wants.

Dylan has finally gotten off his back now that Mickey isn't acting so strange. Mickey's glad, he is, but then he thinks that he shouldn't be behaving like nothing's happened. Because what he's done is fucking awful. Just is.

But then he gets into the apartment and Dylan and Ian are trying to mop up foamy water whilst stopping it from pouring out of the washing machine and Mandy is sat on the breakfast counter, phone in hand and bright laughter spilling from her lips. Perched beside her, Zoe is barking out orders at the two of them, calling them "incompetent idiots". And just - his life is fucking ridiculous.

Holding back his own laughter, Mickey silently walks up behind them, scoops two handfuls of the soapy foam and smears them over both Ian and Dylan's heads. They both let out shrieks, turn around to find Mickey openly laughing at them, before Dylan fucking tackles him and they slip until they're on the floor, clothes soaking up the water.

Mickey catches the fond smile Ian shoots his way and it has his stomach twisting. Not a bad feeling at all.

"Okay you idiots, enough!" Zoe, ever the voice of reason, says. "You do realise you own a mop, right?"

Dylan looks up at her from where he's sprawled out on the floor beside Mickey. "We do? How come you just been sittin' there this whole time?"

"It was amusing watching you try and fail to soak up water with you bare hands."

Eventually, after a lot more playful tussling, they manage to clean up the mess, spreading more water than anything else for the first ten minutes. Mickey, Ian and Dylan go off to the bathroom, tugging off their t-shirts as they go. Mickey's eyes immediately fall to the fucking back dimples Ian has. So fucking unfair.

They towel themselves dry and Mickey feels like he's being completely obvious because he just can't keep his eyes off of Ian. Belatedly, he realises that it's the first time he's seen him topless since their kiss. It changes things; Mickey thinks about what that skin would feel like rubbing against his, what it'd taste like, how the muscles in Ian's back would shift and flex whilst he-

Mickey steps aside, lets Dylan walk past and out of the bathroom. Tells himself he imagined the look of warning Dylan sent him. He's just paranoid.

"Are you gonna come to the gym tomorrow?" Ian asks, simply fiddling with the towel now, not even pretending to be doing anything more.

"You workin'?"

Quirking a small smile, Ian nods.

And Mickey knows, he really fucking knows that that should have him saying no. Because he's not sure if he'll be able to keep his hands to himself if he's left alone with Ian. But - fuck - he actually misses him. He wants to shoot the shit with Ian and mock him for his awful taste in music and hang out in his office not really doing anything.

So Mickey bites his lip, says, "I'll see ya tomorrow", because he just really fucking wants to.


	13. Chapter 13

**This was supposed to be up last night but, well, writer's block. (I also have the feeling this chapter is awful, so sorry in advance?)**

* * *

A single ray of light peaks through the gap between the curtains. Bright and warm, it creates a path in the darkness of Mickey's room and he watches as dust particles float about. It's past noon - must be with how light it is outside - but Mickey's happy to stay lounging where he is, listening in on the muffled conversation between Mandy and Dylan, nosily trying to figure out what they're saying.

His phone chimes and he blindly searches his bedside drawer for it.

_bring swim trunks with you :)_ The text is from Ian and that immediately has Mickey smiling slightly. Because he's obviously turning into a huge fucking girl all over again. He frowns at it, though, curious.

_why?_ he texts back. As he kicks his blankets off of him, he stretches languidly, his back cracking with the movement. He shuffles until he's sat back against the big, white pillows and then lights a cigarette.

A moment later, his phone chimes again._ because i said so. do u have work tonight?_

Mickey rolls his eyes at it, takes another drag as he types out his reply. _such a fuckin bossy cunt, and no but i guess theres no point in me asking why _is what he sends after waiting five minutes. He knows how much that pisses Ian off.

_i know u did that on purpose _Ian sends him seconds later, making him chuckle quietly to himself. Another text comes through a minute after. _no there isn't so just do it :)_ Mickey can actually picture the sarcastic little smile Ian must be wearing right now. Little shit.

Not bothering to text back, Mickey finally gets himself up and out of bed. Without looking into a mirror, he can tell that his hair is a ruffled mess, too long right now, but he doesn't really give a shit. He cracks his back again before putting on a red hoodie, that definitely belongs to Dylan, and walking out of his room.

"Hey!" Dylan shouts, waving his hand at Mickey. "Xavier is a fuckin' badass name for my baby, right?" His eyes are wide and his eyebrows look they're about to climb off his forehead, they're raised so high in expectancy. At the breakfast counter, Mandy shakes her head.

"If you're thinkin' of keepin' him fuckin' bald forever," Mickey says, quirking a quick smile at Mandy when she laughs and looks over at him.

Visibly, Dylan deflates against the arm of the couch. "You're such a geek, dude," he grumbles. "Whatever, how 'bout Keegan?"

Mickey shrugs and gets himself a cup of coffee. "Why Keegan?"

"It means... descendant of the fiery one! How fuckin' cool is that?! That's like some - some gladiator shit right there."

Mickey hums noncommittally, sits down beside Dylan and peers at the laptop screen. "Now I know what to carve on his sword." He smirks into his coffee cup when Dylan just scowls at him. After a minute of watching Dylan browse through what is obviously the first website that came up when he Googled 'baby names' or something, Mickey asks, "Why are you only lookin' at boy names?". Because he's pretty sure he'd know if Dylan knew the sex of the baby; idiot hasn't stopped telling people at work about Zoe. Poor girl.

"I got this feelin'," he says, eyes glued to the screen.

Mickey doesn't bother asking what that "feelin'" is because Dylan is one of those people who obsesses over conspiracies and believes in weird myths that hold next to no truth in them. So he just settles his cigarette in the ashtray and takes big gulps of his coffee.

Every now and then he'll either nod to a name that Dylan suggests - Jace, Evan, Caleb - or look at him questioningly and slowly shake his head - Silas, Gideon, fucking Emerson. Mickey sincerely hopes that Zoe has a strong influence on what they name their kid otherwise it's going to be the most bullied child ever.

Once he's drained his cup of coffee, he stands and stretches, grunting when Dylan slaps his stomach. He drops his cup into the dishwasher and then goes to have a shower.

...

Ian is idly spinning in his desk chair when Mickey gets to the open door of his office. He's got a stack of papers in his hands and as Mickey watches him, he runs a hand over his head and huffs. Endearing shouldn't be the first word that comes to Mickey's mind, but it is. Ian is fucking endearing and Mickey is sort of completely helpless.

Announcing his presence, he clears his throat, smirks at him. "Enjoyin' yourself?" he asks, making his way inside, closing the door behind him.

"So much," Ian drawls, dropping the papers onto his desk and frowning when Mickey's feet (accidentally!) rest on them when he props them up.

Mickey moves them slightly to the side and puts his bag on the floor. Briefly, he thinks that this should be awkward. At least a little. There should be an uncomfortable, stilted feeling to this, shouldn't there? There isn't, though, and when they fall into silence - Mickey flicking through the deck of cards Ian has and Ian writing in some sort of diary - Mickey doesn't stop himself from stealing glances at him. Figures there's no need to anymore. Not here, at least.

When Ian's done doing whatever it is he was doing (the fuck does a gym manager do, anyways?) they play a couple games of Go Fish then a game of Rummy. Mickey wins them all and feels incredibly smug about it

Ian says, "Fuck you", with a tiny smile and shoves his cards at Mickey.

Mickey stops himself from making some sort of lewd joke about that; he doesn't really know what the boundaries are between them. And Ian hasn't brought up what happened and Mickey isn't about to. No doubt it'll make shit awkward.

...

Two hours later, when Mickey has played more card games than he has in his life and has listened to the beginning of like, some sales pitch Ian has to give so that some company sells their line of sportswear, he's seriously confused as to why he had to bring swim trunks with him.

When he voices his confusion, Ian shrugs and says, "We're closing early today and you haven't seen the pool yet", like it's the most obvious thing ever.

"So we're breakin' into the pool after hours?" He nods to himself. "Nice."

"I actually have a key and I'm allowed here as late as I want but if you wanna think of it as breaking and entering, go ahead."

Mickey flips him off, tries his best to keep from smiling. Fails. "So, how long I gotta stick around for?"

Ian checks the clock on the wall behind him. It reads 4:23pm. He pushes away from the desk then stands, a bag in his hand. "Come on," he says, walking past Mickey.

They walk to the separate locker rooms for the swimming pool and sauna - and just how fucking big is this place? - Ian nodding and saying "see ya later" to his colleagues when they pass. Ian unlocks the doors, opens it up for Mickey doing a stupid little bow as he walks in. Mickey elbows him in the stomach and makes the split-second decision to go into one of the individual cubicles. He can't be fucking naked around Ian right now.

When he steps back out, he's alone. His first thought is that this place is creepy as shit when it's empty with the lights off. Then he hears the sound of water splashing and follows it until the strong scent of chlorine and bleach has him scrunching up his nose.

Swimming pools always make Mickey feel young. He has no idea why because the only times he went were with school just to learn how to swim; it wasn't a place he went to regularly. The only reason he still knows how is probably because of the pool Iggy's friend had in his backyard.

Ian is bobbing about right in the center, smiling wide. Mickey eyes the low diving board, grins back at Ian and heads towards it. Remembers all the time the swimming teachers told him not to run. He thought it was bullshit before he and two of his friends raced to get into the water first and slipped, crashing into each other. They all nearly broke their own noses.

He stands back by the wall, hands braced against it, smirks when Ian calls, "Come on, Milkovich!". He pushes off from the wall, runs onto the diving board then jumps off of it. He hugs his knees to his chest and splashes into the water, the sound of Ian's laughter becoming distorted.

When he surfaces, Ian's floating on his back, mouth still open with a smile. He looks happy. Mickey wipes the water from his eyes and wonders if it's because of him. Tries to ignore the part of him that hopes it is.

Ian's eyes slowly close and Mickey takes the opportunity to run his own down the expanse of his skin, rippling under the movement of the water. Mickey is close enough to see the sprinkling of freckles over his shoulders and the tiny scar just under his collarbone. He watches and watches, not knowing how long for.

"Creeper." Mickey eyes flick to Ian's face from where he was looking at his belly button, for fuck's sake.

"Fuck off," he mutters, embarrassed, flicking water at Ian's face.

Ian just quietly chuckles and moves so that he's upright, mirroring Mickey's stance. "Wanna race?"

"Yeah, 'cause I'm obviously a fuckin' ten year old." Mickey fakes an unimpressed scoff, but as soon as Ian begins to roll his eyes, he plunges into the water and begins to swim as fast as he can, arms and legs working together to propel him forwards.

Of course none of that matters when Ian's some sort of fucking Olympic swimmer who beats him to the end of the pool by about ten seconds.

Once Mickey makes it over to him, his pace slower now that he's already lost, he blinks at him in disbelief. "The fuck was that?"

Ian lifts one shoulder in a shrug, arm brushing against Mickey's. "What was what?"

"That," Mickey clarifies, gesturing to the pool.

A strange expression passes over Ian's face and Mickey watches, intrigued. There's a hint of a smile on Ian's face as he drifts away from the edge of the pool, his legs slowly kicking about to keep himself afloat. All the while, Mickey watches him and tries not to think too hard about how Ian's eyes are boring into his own.

"Well," Ian starts, now right in front of him, "I'm a fast swimmer." He comes a little closer and Mickey sinks further into the water until it's almost at his chin. "Or maybe I'm an average swimmer and you're just really fucking slow," Ian says in one breath, his quiet laughter making the end of the sentence nearly almost incoherent.

Mickey smiles because he can't help it and then lunges for him, pushes himself up on Ian's shoulders to dunk him. Ian is on him straight away when he surfaces and Mickey swallows a whole mouthful of water on his way down and whilst he's under the water, he grabs onto Ian's ankle and yanks. And then they're both attempting to wrestle whilst holding their breath and keeping their eyes open against the stinging chlorine. Never mind that their movements are completely slowed down and their hits aren't thrown to hurt.

Panting and beaming, they surface together, only a few feet between them.

"Truce?" Ian offers.

"Yeah, whatever," Mickey says, "just 'cause you were losin'."

"Hm, yeah." Ian is on his back again, floating with his arms stretched out wide. But his eyes are still open and so Mickey doesn't stare at the subtle definition of his abs or the small birthmark by his right hip.

Mickey bites at the corner of his lip. "Dylan's convinced the baby's gonna be a boy." He doesn't exactly blurt it out or anything, but judging by Ian's surprised face, it was obviously a random topic to bring up. Mickey doesn't know, he's feeling sort of - not nervous, he isn't fucking nervous, just unsure, maybe?

"Yeah?" Ian floats over and Mickey immediately backs up, all the way until his back hits the tiled edge. Now upright, Ian moves to his side; shoulder to shoulder. "How come?"

Huffing a laugh, Mickey side-eyes him for a moment. "Some fuckin' "feeling" he has." He doesn't actually air-quote that, but they're definitely audible.

"Oh... What's Zoe gotta say about that? Does she think the same?"

"Dunno, man. He probably hasn't even told her." He looks down at his feet, chuckles a little, shaking his head. "He was browsin' baby names earlier. I swear some of 'em - they were like, from the nineteenth century or some shit. Surprised he didn't suggest fuckin' Heathcliff."

Ian barks out a short laugh and Mickey turns to face him. "Jesus, I hope Zoe vetoes them. The kid wouldn't survive school with a dumb name."

"Oh yeah, what about if he's ginger?" Mickey teases, not moving quick enough to dodge the fist aimed at his arm. "Fuck," he groans, rubbing where he was hit, "fuckin' He-Man."

Smiling thin-lipped and innocently, Ian raises his middle finger at him and Mickey's hit with this feeling deep inside him. It aches and feels fucking amazing at the same time and he just can't look away from Ian's face; so relaxed and just, fuck - so fucking nice.

And Mickey wants to touch him or kiss him; do something to have him as close as possible because it's like he's craving it and he's not sure what to do about it. It's not the same as it was with Jake. Jake was nice and he made Mickey feel good sometimes but he never just understood. Things go unspoken between he and Ian: ghosts from their past that still haunt them.

Ian's done bad things just like Mickey has; Ian knows what it's like to have steal food so that you and your family can have a meal; Ian knows fear like Mickey does - not like the normal fear of normal things, but this unique South Side fear.

Ian doesn't take his shit, either. Mickey'd never thought he'd like that; someone pushing him. He's punched people for mouthing off at him before, people who've said shit to him that isn't nearly as bad what Ian's said to him. Ian isn't afraid to argue with him about how the twist in Fight Club isn't as good as the twist in The Sixth Sense (even though it fucking is); he'll gladly mock Mickey's taste in tv shows, even though he and Dylan have gotten weirdly into Teen Mom.

And for several minutes, Mickey is able to forget that this guy who he's starting to like way too much is his sister's boyfriend. He lets himself look at Ian for as long as he wants and he lets Ian move until their sides are pressed together.

...

"Dylan, we are not naming our child Odin!" is what greets Mickey as he and Ian walk through the front door. "Ian, you're a somewhat reasonable and responsible adult; please tell this idiot how it's practically child abuse to name our child Odin or fucking Zeus!"

Ian's eyes flick between Dylan and Zoe and Mickey pats him on the back as he passes, joins Mandy in the kitchen.

She's making mac and cheese in tiny shorts and a black sweater. "Hey," she says. "Think Dylan's capable of thinkin' up a normal name for their kid?"

"He actually did earlier." Mickey steals some grated cheese, sprinkles it into his mouth as Mandy frowns at him. Fuck it, he's starving. "But I'm pretty sure he's dead set on Xavier still."

Mandy pulls this face - Mickey hasn't seen it in years. Her lips kind of pout a little and her eyebrows screw together until they're almost meeting in the middle. It's the face she'd pull when their older brothers would make a joke she was too young to understand. Mickey smiles at her and her features straighten out when she catches him looking.

"Fuck off," she mutters, "and stop eating the fucking cheese!" She grabs the bowl from his hands and goes back to mixing the pasta about before mentioning how badly Mickey needs a haircut unless he's growing it out, which he "should never, ever fucking do". "I can do it, if you want," she offers, shrugging.

"Sure. Tomorrow?"

She nods and ruffles his hair.

**#**

"But Mom-"

"Baby, Mommy's gotta go, she gotta pick somethin' up. Stay with Mickey."

Mickey huffs an annoyed sigh - he doesn't want to babysit Mandy! Again. He's totally about to beat Joey's highscore on the Nintendo and all Mandy's gonna do is be a whiny little baby because Mom's going out.

The couch dips when Mandy falls back onto it and he nearly falls off when she steals the pillow he's leaning on.

"Bitch, give it back!" Mickey warns still concentrating on his game.

"Um... no! And don't call me 'bitch', Mom says-"

"Yeah, well, Mom ain't here, so give it back, _bitch_." But Mandy doesn't and so Mickey jumps on her, pins her down to the couch whilst she yells and squeals. He laughs at her, messes up her hair into a knotty mess. "Give up?"

She kicks her legs wildly and gets him right in the balls. Mickey curses as he falls off the couch, then Mandy pounces on top of him, weighing him down. "Cut my bangs and I'll let you go and won't tell Dad you called me 'bitch'. Twice."

Failing to push her off, Mickey drops his head to the ground. If Mandy tells Dad then he'll probably get the belt. Bitch. "Shit, fine, whatever," he mumbles. "Get off me, then."

She scrambles off of him, her pink shorts nearly falling off her skinny little ass. Ten year old sisters are so annoying, Mickey thinks as he follows her into the kitchen. She gets out the scissors and hands them to him before sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, feet hanging slightly above the ground.

Mickey kneels on the ground in front of her and hopes none of his brothers walk in. Or worse, his dad. They'd probably call him a fairy for doing something like this, ask him where his dick went. That's what they did the first time.

Mandy's toes dig into his ribs. "Come on," she says, blinking hair out of her eyes. She really does need a haircut.

"How short you want it?" he asks, making the first cut.

Holding up her finger to her forehead, just above her eyebrows, Mandy says, "To here".

So Mickey cuts, does his best to keep it an even line and then cuts vertically so that it doesn't look too straight. When he's done, he pats her bare thigh and she slides off the chair, smiling.

"Thanks, Mickey."

**#**

Zoe and Dylan are all bright smiles and hugs when they walk into the apartment. Mandy has just finished cutting Mickey's hair, threatened to give Mickey a surprise buzzcut when he jokingly asked her if she even needs any qualifications to cut hair.

The air Mandy blows on his neck to get rid of any stray hairs tickles his neck and he squirms away until she backs off, cuffing the back of his head before she packs her shit away and goes to her room.

Mickey settles back into the beanbag and watches as Dylan attacks Zoe's neck, kissing her noisily, his arms around her waist from behind. "Guessin' the scan went okay?"

"September 18th, dude, September 18th and we'll have our very own baby," Dylan explains, smile practically splitting his face in two. He playfully slaps Zoe's ass as she goes to the bathroom, complaining about her bladder.

Maybe it's kind of mean, but Mickey finds it hilarious how grumpy certain things about pregnancy make Zoe. Whenever Mickey has a beer she sends him these evil looks until he's drained it and, even though it makes her want to throw up, she sips at small mugs of coffee before she gives up and pours it down the sink. Can't fault her for trying.

"Excited?" Mickey asks sarcastically.

Dylan, now sprawled out on the couch, seems to ignore Mickey's tone and nods happily. "Man, it's gonna be so fuckin' cool havin' a tiny person around the house."

"S'not a dwarf," Mickey mutters, flicking through tv channels.

"Shut up - know what I mean." Dylan goes uncharacteristically quiet for a minute and Mickey eyes him curiously. "You don't mind, right?" he asks eventually.

"No," Mickey says immediately, not needing Dylan to explain what it is he might mind. "This is more your place than it is mine, anyways." He stops channel-surfing when he sees a rerun of Friends is on. "Babies don't even bother me that much." Which is true. Mickey doesn't know why because babies, in theory, should be the most annoying thing to him but they really aren't. So long as he doesn't have to fucking change diapers.

"You're the best, man," Dylan says, all sweet. Like the big homo he really is.

All four of them settle down when Zoe and Mandy come out and sit on Dylan when he refuses to budge. They fall quiet, too busy watching the episode of Friends that they'v all probably seen a dozen times. At least Mickey knows he and Dylan have.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see the way Dylan's mouth silently moves whenever Chandler speaks. Christ, he's like a five-year old and he's going to be having his own baby. But Mickey knows Dylan will be an amazing dad, whether he's an overgrown child or not. And what's more is that he wants to be. His basket on Amazon had about ten baby and parenting books in it when he left his laptop open on the coffee table a few days ago.

He isn't going to forget birthdays or teach his kid how to fucking hate but not how to love. Dylan will shower his kid with affection instead of leaving it to crave it, find it in the beds of strangers. He won't spend money it needs for school books on drugs and booze. He won't laugh in his kids face when it asks for money for school books, making it think that being interesting in learning is stupid. Dylan will love his child unconditionally.

...

By the fourth episode, Mandy and Dylan are fast asleep. Mickey can't imagine how what with Dylan's neck at such an uncomfortable angle and with the two fully grown women sat on him and Mandy with her face smushed against a cushion. How she's breathing, he has no fucking idea.

His eyes focus on the door at the sound of it being unlocked. Wearing a hoodie that's actually Mickey's - he'll never admit the stupid fucking feeling he got just then, seeing Ian in something of his - Ian walks in, gives a little nod over to he and Zoe and then points to the kitchen when Zoe faces the tv again.

Mickey quietly gets up, his socked feet barely making a sound on the laminated floor. "What's up?" he asks, leaning his hip against the counter beside Ian.

Looking up from his feet, Ian scratches the back of his neck. "Some guy at work wanted me to give the guy I'm always hanging out with his number." His voice is quiet and Mickey checks Zoe isn't listening before taking a step closer. "I said alright and so he gave it to me." Ian takes out a little piece of paper from his jeans pocket and holds it out.

And like, what the fuck? Is Ian being an idiot on purpose right now or what? "I don't want it." Mickey rubs at his bottom lip and stares at Ian's hand until he stuffs it and the piece of paper back into his pocket. "Fuck, man," he sighs, "why'd you think I'd want that?"

Ian shrugs his shoulders and keeps them hunched for a moment. "Shit." His body practically falls back against the fridge. He's smiling at Mickey now, small and private. "Not sure, just figured it'd be weird if I said I didn't want to give you his number."

Mickey doesn't think he's ever had someone jealous over him before. Well there was that time when Shannon, this girl he used to fuck, thought she owned him, but that was different. This is good; maybe it's what it feels like to be wanted. Not like how Mickey's used to feeling, not like how it feels when someone wants to fuck you or give you head. Maybe this is what it feels like when someone wants all of you to themselves.

Is this what Ian feels when Mickey looks at him? Does he get this heady feeling like Mickey has right now?

Mickey steps between his open legs, his eyes immediately drawn to his lips. "I don't want anybody else's number," he says carefully, pointedly, because it's important that Ian understands just how fucking true that is.


	14. Chapter 14

Routine is something Mickey never knew when he was younger. All these kids who have dinner at six, watch tv for half an hour, brush their teeth and then bedtime at seven. Or those who visit the park with their parents and their fucking Labrador every weekend and then have their grandparents over every other Sunday. Mickey had none of that. Half the time he wouldn't even know if he'd be going to school in the morning. If his mom didn't wake him up or set his alarm, he'd get up around noon, groggy and confused.

Events were rarely planned in his household. Fights would break out randomly, three-day benders would start whenever, his dad would go on drug runs at odd times during the night or early morning; the fact that there were kids at home didn't mean shit.

But the next three days seem to merge into one; day after day playing out almost exactly the same. He wakes up at about eleven, hangs out with Dylan and Zoe - discussing baby names and what they'll need to buy, like what he thinks even matters - then he has lunch with Ian at the gym cafe at one, hangs out with him for a couple of hours and then he's back at the apartment before he goes to work.

It isn't exactly unwelcome. Just new. But it keeps Mickey from going kind of crazy about him and Ian. Because they still haven't spoken about what's happened between them. What is still happening between them. Mickey has so many fucking questions to ask. Only he doesn't want to ruin whatever the fuck it is they have. Because there's this sense of calm that comes with being around Ian. Mickey can't explain it, doesn't even want to really, and he definitely doesn't want it to stop.

That's why when he sees it's one o'clock, he puts on a clean hoodie and leaves the apartment, starts walking to the gym.

Ian's already sat at their table, in the corner near the back. He's got the hood of his jacket up over his head and he's slouched low, head bowed like he's sleeping. Which actually seems likely the closer Mickey gets to him.

After he's got himself a smoothie, he wanders over to Ian's sleeping form. His lips are slightly pouted but other than that his face looks completely relaxed. Tired, but relaxed.

Quietly, Mickey pulls out the chair opposite to him and sits. Fidgets about before he just accepts that these chairs are too fucking hard for him to ever get comfortable and starts slurping at his drink. He tries not to stare too much. It's one thing staring at Ian when he's awake and probably knows that it's happening, but doing it whilst he's asleep is just weird.

Doesn't really stop him from doing it, though.

And after nearly quarter of an hour of drinking, fucking about on his phone and subtly glancing at him, Ian wakes up.

"Shit," he croaks, eyes slowly opening. He yawns, stretching out his legs, accidentally kicking Mickey. And Ian startles at that, sits up and blinks at him. Slipping his hood off, he asks, "How long you been here?".

Mickey fiddles with his straw. "Not long," he lies.

Ian runs a hand through his hair. "Come on," he says, standing, "these chairs are ridiculous."

Mickey chuckles quietly to himself but follows, admiring the way Ian stretches his back.

His office is a complete mess, papers strewn across the desk, highlighters and Sharpies randomly lying about. Mickey takes in the sight of it and guesses this has something to do with why Ian was snoozing.

Once sat down in his usual spot, Mickey asks, "What's going on?", to Ian's back whilst he hurriedly files things away.

"Got a-" he pauses to yawn against the back of his hand -"meeting tomorrow and, I don't know, I guess it's stressing me out."

Which is sort of - off. Like, when three of the five personal trainers were off ill last week, Ian took it in his stride, just dealt with it. So Mickey can tell that whatever it is that has Ian like this must be a big deal. Big enough to have him muttering to himself as he frantically searches through the pile of files that's about a second away from toppling over.

He kicks Ian shin, says, "Fuckin' relax, man. Just sit your ass down, take a breather."

And though he's looking completely unimpressed, Ian does as Mickey says and sits down opposite him. He waits, real patient and calm, because he knows Ian will end up talking, blowing off steam with his words.

"Just," Ian starts, pressing down and squeezing a hole puncher like it's a stress ball (maybe Mickey should get him one), "these other managers and our boss came in a couple days ago, had a meeting with them and it was so obvious that they didn't think I'd last in this job because I'm so young. All of 'em were at least in their thirties and I'm only turning twenty-two in a few weeks." He looks at Mickey, eyes earnest and open and so Ian that it has Mickey smiling. "What?"

"Nah, nothin'. You - it's weird seeing you like this. Dunno why you're even worried, man, you're good at all this gym manager shit." He shrugs. "Still convinced you just sit on your ass all day, but whatever." And Ian's smiling too, now. Because of Mickey; it makes him feel powerful, like he's fucking invincible and all that other sappy bullshit that he'll never admit out loud.

Mickey lets Ian explain all about the meeting and what he has to do and what's expected of him and how he doesn't know if he can pull it off - "shut the fuck up, yeah you can" - and how he's pretty fucking happy with his job, doesn't want to lose it.

There's not a single interesting thing about what Ian says, not one, yet Mickey listens to every word. Nods and shrugs and scoffs when he feels acceptable.

He listens to Ian yammer on, only stopping when his phone vibrates and he has a text from Dylan saying that he and Zoe are waiting for him.

"Baby shopping time?"

Mickey raises his eyebrows at Ian's smirk. "They're gettin' a crib," Mickey says, like that validates why the fuck he's even going with them.

Ian stands when Mickey does, walks with him to the door, hands in the pockets of his black slacks. He leans against the wall by the door, asks if Mickey is working tonight.

"Got the night off." He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, turns to give Ian a quick once over. "See ya later?"

"See ya later." And Ian leans into him, catches his lips with his own and Mickey instantly kisses him back, opens his mouth to Ian's tongue. Like it's a thing they do, like they're a goddamn couple who kiss hello and goodbye.

When they pull apart, Mickey knows his face is mirroring Ian's look of surprise. Several awkward, silent seconds pass before Mickey mumbles out something he can't even understand and leaves.

**#**

"Wanna stick around? Play some X-box?" Jay asks, pulling on his boxers with that lazy smirk he can't seem to get rid of.

Mickey shakes his head, stretches until his back cracks. "Nah, man," he mumbles around the smoke between his lips. "I gotta get goin', got shit to do."

Jay eyes him, focuses on his chest and Mickey rolls his eyes because Jesus, this kid is such a fag. Like, yeah, sure, Mickey is the one who was just taking it up the ass but at least he doesn't hit on people with his eyes without knowing it.

"Take a fuckin' picture and all that shit," he says, finding his boxers and pulling them on, then his t-shirt.

And Mickey swears Jay is blushing. Fucking swears it.

He finds his jeans almost completely under the bed and drags them out, puts them on. He's fully dressed and ready to get going - some kid owes him for weed he sold him a week ago, and Mickey isn't going to sit twiddling his thumbs waiting for it.

Stepping up beside Jay, he says, "Later", and makes to leave.

Only Jay pulls him back and kisses him. Fucking - turns his head and plants one right on Mickey's mouth, licks at his lip. Mickey opens his mouth on instinct because he's kissed enough girls to know what the fuck he's supposed to do. Hasn't kissed a guy, though.

He doesn't want to, fuck. He rams his elbow into Jay's ribs, wipes the back of his hand against his mouth like a little kid scared he's got cooties. "Fuckin' do that again, and you ain't gonna have a tongue to stick down my throat," he says, warns, threatens.

He doesn't go back to Jay after that.

**#**

Dylan is wearing a yellow baby blanket around his neck like a cape and Mickey is refusing to acknowledge his existence.

"Dylan! I swear to God, I am not in the mood for your shit!" Zoe snaps when Dylan picks up some kind of breast pump and starts making innuendos that nobody over the age of twelve should find funny.

Chastised, Dylan puts it back on the shelf and hangs back with Mickey. "Take that the fuck off before Zoe actually murders you." Dylan looks at him, attempting puppy eyes that just aren't going to work on Mickey right now, before sighing and pulling the blanket off.

"Why's everyone so pissy today?" he grumbles.

Mickey doesn't answer, still stuck on the fact that he kissed Ian like it was the most natural thing to do. And it's worse than the last two times, so much worse, because Mickey didn't even register it; they kissed and he wasn't even aware of it until after.

He snaps out of his thoughts when Zoe starts snapping her fingers in front of his face. "Fuck, what?"

She rakes her eyes slowly down his body then back up again. If she were anyone else, Mickey'd think he'd just been checked out. "What do you think of this one?" She gestures to a crib, the wood a light brown.

He nods a single time. "It's fine," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. His opinion doesn't exactly matter, does it? And besides, Zoe's, what, ten weeks pregnant? She doesn't look pregnant at all, not even a little chunky. The baby isn't on its way, like, now and Mickey has no clue why they're shopping for baby stuff already.

And where the fuck has Dylan gone? Mickey's managed to avoid being left alone with Zoe, for fear that she'll somehow get him talking about Ian, for a while now and he'd like to keep it that way.

"What's on your mind?" she asks, playing with the zip of her leather jacket. "Is everything between you and Ian okay?"

Mickey groans internally, curses at her and screams, but what he says aloud is, "Yeah". He doesn't ask why she wants to know because he both doesn't care and knows she's going to say regardless.

"Really?" She drums her nails against the railing of the crib and Mickey nods. "The two of you seem close now, good friends."

Mickey is about to tell her to just get to her fucking point when Dylan shouts that he's found "the most badass little giraffe toy" and earns the attention of everyone in the store. And, like, a five-mile radius.

Now too busy being annoyed at Dylan, Zoe drops the subject and reluctantly walks over to Dylan as he starts waving the damn toy in the air.

...

If the others have picked up on the strange tension between Mickey and Ian, they don't comment on it. Mandy rolls her eyes at him, unconcerned that he's in a shitty mood again. After all these years, he can't say he's surprised at her reaction.

Zoe, on the other hand, won't stop looking at him from where she's sat with Dylan's arm across her shoulders, her feet in Mickey's lap like he hasn't told her five times to get them away from him. Doesn't need her fucking feet anywhere near him.

At least Ian isn't trying to talk about it, has kept his distance since their kiss yesterday. And Mickey does not have a clue how to handle this - these fucking feelings that he doesn't want, doesn't need, yet can't get rid of. He's been trying, Christ, he really has. But it isn't easy. Fucking impossible actually, seeing as he can't think of a single quality of Ian's he doesn't like. A lot. Even the annoying shit; how he can push Mickey to talk and argue with him.

Especially the annoying shit, actually.

When his phone alarm goes off at eight he gladly moves from his lazy position on the couch, shoving Zoe's feet off of him. He changes quickly into his work clothes, pockets a pack of smokes, a lighter and his phone before leaving.

...

Mickey didn't think the gym was really that big of a deal in his life. He thought it was something he could easily go without, no problem, but it's been three days since he's gotten to pound away his stress on a treadmill and Mickey is going out of his mind with it.

He can't concentrate on anything but the way Ian's mouth felt like against his and how he had his hand on Mickey's neck; possessive in a way that makes Mickey groan into his fist when it's late at night and he's jacking off. This shit is getting out of hand but Mickey's lost, all out of ideas to stop himself from doing something ridiculous like fucking falling in love.

Because he can't do that. Not with the guy Mandy's been with since she was fucking nineteen. He just - he can't do that to her. He won't.

That's why when he's almost certain that Ian isn't working so late, he packs his duffel bag with his gym shit and makes to leave.

"Seeing Ian?"

Mickey doesn't turn around, doesn't stop moving toward the front door. "No," he says and can _feel_ Zoe's smirk at that.

He likes how the gym gets when it's late evening. They turn on these coloured lights and switch off the tvs and it feels real chilled. Maybe a gym shouldn't feel like that, maybe it should be all high energy, encouraging you to work out as hard as you can, but Mickey prefers it like this.

Nobody is at the treadmills so he gets on the one that's right in the middle and starts it up. He begins with a slow jog and can already feel his shoulders begin to sink, his head feeling a little less frenzied with thinking.

He's got a good rhythm going, the burn in his thighs gradually getting to that point he loves, when someone says his name. He startles, nearly trips over his own fucking feet. The hand coming out to to hold his arm steadies him, though.

Sheepishly, Ian smiles, takes his hand back. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

Mickey just sort of blinks at him for a moment before stopping the treadmill and saying, "S'fine. What's up?", as casually as he can whilst panting and wiping his sweaty palms on his grey sweatpants.

Ian toys with the keys in his hand. "Wait until closing time."

And Mickey can't tell if that's a question or an order but he says, "Yeah, okay", anyway, so it doesn't exactly matter.

...

Fresh out of the shower, Mickey sits on the bench between the row of lockers in just his boxers, towels his hair. A guy walks out of a shower cubicle, all toned abs and muscled thighs, full-on naked and Mickey barely glances his way.

Ian walks in a moment later, bites down on his bottom lip when, who Mickey is calling, The Naked Guy starts to put some sort of moisturiser on his feet, massaging it into the skin. Mickey'd really like to know why he couldn't do that with some pants on, but whatever.

"Locker rooms sure have changed from when I was in high school," Ian whispers, sitting down beside him.

Mickey laughs quietly. "Yeah."

They watch as The Naked Guy puts on a pair of boxer-briefs and then a suit that must be like, Armani or some shit. Once he's left Mickey becomes aware that he's actually still half-naked and that it's sort of weird sitting with Ian like this.

He stands, lets himself feel the tiniest bit smug when he catches Ian staring at his ass.

"Look," Ian says and Mickey opens up his locker, "about the other day-"

"It's fine," Mickey interrupts, hand clenching into a fist around his clean t-shirt.

Ian scoffs. "Obviously it isn't because you've been avoiding me, so maybe lay off the bullshit."

"Right," Mickey drawls, a little pissed off now, "'cause you just couldn't keep yourself away?" He faces him, eyebrows raised. "Don't fuckin' act like I'm the one who's been doin' the avoiding, man. You're just as bad as me." He rubs his bottom lip, feels a wave of anxiety wash over him. Fuck knows why.

Ian looks at him for a long time. Uncomfortably long, but Mickey can't turn away. "I just..." Ian takes a step closer. "You make it so fucking hard, Mickey," he says all soft and quiet.

And Mickey knows what he means because Ian's makes it hard. Unbearably so. He makes Mickey feel like a scared sixteen year old all over again, just without the fear of getting his skull bashed in. Ian makes him feel at home but not like he's trapped in a life he wants to escape from. Fuck, Ian just - he makes him _feel_.

"You're such a prick," Mickey whispers into the air between them before he's kissing away the small smile that plays on Ian's lips.

They kiss softly at first; it's tentative, like they're new to this, like they're teenagers having their first kiss. Mickey almost laughs right into Ian's mouth at the thought.

Ian splays his hands out against Mickey's back before he wraps his arms around Mickey's waist and pulls so that they're chest to chest. But it's an oddly gentle move, no shoving or grabbing - simple movement. And Mickey moans with it. Doesn't know why because he doesn't like it soft and gentle.

He moves his hands from Ian's neck, gets them up under his polo-shirt, scratches lightly at his shoulderblades and revels in the way it makes Ian arch against him and fuck, Mickey needs him topless now, needs to feel Ian's skin pressing against his own. And Ian seems to get it because he's undoing the first button of the shirt then tugging it up over his head, throwing it to the ground.

Mickey backs up against the locker, pulls Ian back to him with his fingers in the waistband of his slacks. Ian smirks, and fuck if it isn't the sexiest thing Mickey's seen. He'd feel embarrassed about the way his dick is tenting his boxers if he couldn't see that Ian is just as affected as him, slacks pulled tight across what must be an uncomfortable hard-on.

Hands flying to Ian's zipper, Mickey wastes no time in tugging down his pants and getting his hand into Ian's boxers. It shouldn't be such a turn on, the feel of Ian, hot and hard in his palm, but it makes Mickey feel real needy, desperate. He jacks Ian off with slow, firm pulls that have him sighing and resting his forehead against Mickey's temple.

"Fuck, Mick, I want..." he trails off on a groan when Mickey thumbs at the head of his dick.

"Yeah," Mickey breathes, not caring that his voice cracks, "yeah, come on."

Turns out Ian was holding back; when he kisses Mickey again, he fucks his tongue into his mouth and nibbles on Mickey's bottom lip. Mickey's boxers are pulled down his thighs before he even knows what's happening and Jesus fuck, Ian slowly drops to his knees and takes Mickey into his mouth like he was goddamn made for it.

He goes slow and Mickey'd hate him for it if it didn't feel so fucking amazing. And maybe this is what Dylan yammers on about when he and Mickey are having their smoke breaks at work. Maybe this is what he means when he says that Zoe's the best he's ever had even though he's had better.

Because Mickey has had guys deepthroat him like it's the simplest thing in the world and yet here, with Ian sucking on his dick, holding the backs of his thighs, Mickey can't think of anything that has ever felt better.

He puts a hand on Ian's cheek and moans low when Ian looks up at him and he needs him. Right fucking now in this gym locker room - that cliche isn't lost on Mickey, really, it isn't - he _needs_ Ian to fuck him. He says that out loud, says it because he wants Ian to pull off and mutter a curse into the skin of his hip, like he just did.

He wants Ian standing again and taking off the rest of his clothes so that he's just as bare as him. Mickey fumbles with his bag, produces the small bottle of lube he put in there the first time he fucked whoever it was and thought better-

"Shit," he hisses, as he's turned around and pinned to the lockers.

Ian mouths at the nape of his neck and anticipation alights Mickey's body at the sound of the lube opening. He screws his eyes shut when Ian puts two fingers to him, slowly moving them in circles before he pushes them inside. Slowly, but like he knows Mickey can take it; as if he knows what Mickey did this morning in bed with the images of Ian in his mind.

Ian's fingers move in, out, in, out, all the while his mouth never stops kissing Mickey's neck. He adds a third finger after a little while and laughs - deep, fucking husky - when Mickey jolts as he finds his prostate and brushes against it over and over until Mickey's an actual mess and is two seconds away from begging.

His body blankets Mickey's when he leans over him in search of a condom in Mickey's bag and he wastes no time in putting it on, lubing up and lining himself up.

Stuttering out a "fuck", Ian bottoms out, breathing heavy against Mickey's neck. He pulls out and pushes back in again, harder this time, one hand on Mickey's shoulder and the other on his hip, fingers digging into his skin. Mickey hopes he leaves bruises, wants to wear them for weeks.

Ian speeds up his movements, slams into Mickey so hard he has to grip onto the top of the lockers with one hand and splay the other against the closed locker by his head. He bites down on his lip - hard, too hard, he'll probably make it bleed - so that he doesn't cry out because shit, this is what he's been craving for weeks: Ian as close to him as possible.

And Ian keeps pounding into him, right against that spot that makes his toes curl until they feel like they're going to break. He slams his fist against metal. It echoes around the room but doesn't drown out the sound of low moans and heavy breathing; skin slapping against skin.

"Fuck," Mickey grunts; this feels so good, too good for what it is. There's only intense pleasure where he should feel guilt. Perhaps that'll come later.

He lolls his head back against Ian's shoulder when Ian strokes his neck. And he's pink in the face, a little sweaty and Mickey thinks he's never looked so good. He bites at Ian's jaw, loves the way it has Ian's hips jerking, and then kisses him all heat and no finesse.

Then there's a hand trailing down his front, brushing against a nipple then moving lower.

With a ragged sigh, Mickey detaches his mouth from Ian's, groans, "Oh, fuck", as Ian begins to jack him off in time with the movement of his hips. And Mickey's surprised his heart hasn't fucking jumped right through his chest, it's beating so fast, maybe even in time with the thumping of Ian's he can feel on his back.

He moans, long and way too fucking loud, when Ian starts moving faster still, his mouth grunting right into Mickey's ears. "You gonna come?" he asks and Mickey's helpless to do anything but nod because Ian isn't trying to be sexy or dirty talk, he's asking because he wants to make Mickey come and that's just too much.

Mickey screws his eyes shut, bows his head as pleasure builds inside him until his dick is spilling over Ian's hand and he tenses all over. Ian doesn't slow down until he's biting Mickey's shoulder and moaning his name into the marked skin.

They're both breathing like they've gone a couple rounds in the ring and Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose because he doesn't want Ian to leave. He's cold, now, feels sweaty and gross but he doesn't want Ian to pull away.

And he knows.

It's like a bat to the kneecaps.

Gently as he can in his panicked state, Mickey pushes Ian away and dresses himself. He feels like screaming or fucking crying because of course he'd be falling into something that feels too much like love with the one guy he can't have. Shouldn't have. Isn't his to have.

He hates himself when he feels that familiar dull ache when he sits on the bench to put his shoes on. He hangs his head, roughly scrubs his hands through his hair, can feel Ian standing close, probably unsure of what to do. Well, Mickey doesn't give a shit. He doesn't.

Without even glancing his way, Mickey gets up, bag in hand, and leaves. Stalks through the now empty gym and into the night air. It's cool against his skin and he sighs into it.

Mickey lights a cigarette with shaking fingers, is thankful for the familiar smell of it overpowering the scent of sex that followed him outside. He feels jittery, like he's fucking taken something and he gets out his phone texts Jake asking if he can go over to his place.

Fuck, Mickey's not even sure why. Because maybe he'll realise that he still likes Jake and all this shit with Ian isn't really anything? So he can fuck someone so at least the last person he's had sex with won't be his sister's boyfriend?

None of that matters when Jake texts back _sure :)_, Mickey's already on his way.

...

He's chain-smoked five cigarettes by the time he gets to Jake's front door. He cracks his knuckles, one finger at a time and waits.

"Hi," Jake says, all smiles and he's got a 'I heart NY' t-shirt on with tight black boxer-briefs and Mickey feels nothing. Sees he looks good, sure, but that's it.

He shuts down the anger and smiles back, walks in when Jake opens the door further.

"Want somethin' to drink?" Jake asks, leaning against the wall.

Mickey shakes his head, checks Jake out as obviously as he can so that they can just get this show on the fucking road.

Shuffling his feet, Jake bites his lip but doesn't say anything, so Mickey takes off his jacket and walks towards him. He frames Jake's face in his hands and as his lips hover over Jake's, he says, "Mickey, come on", but it's not an invitation, nor a plea to hurry up.

"You come on," Mickey whispers into his ear, biting the lobe of it when Jake's hands find his ass.

They crash into his bedroom, Jake mumbling shit about being quiet and waking up Emma, but Mickey isn't listening, too intent on getting Jake on the bed.

Except when Mickey is straddling him, getting a hickey sucked onto his neck, he feels like he's about to break. Jake must notice because he stops and pulls back, face concerned.

And this is what Mickey should want: Jake easy, pliable beneath him. But now he has it and it's so not enough. Not even close to being enough because he's had it. _It_. It with his red hair and freckled shoulders and a face that Mickey doesn't ever want to stop looking at.

"Hey," Jake puts a hand to his face, forces him to look. Mickey watches as Jake searches his face, heart feeling like it's going to explode when he knows Jake knows. "It's Ian, right?" Mickey grinds his teeth together, feels like he's about to puke. "Hey, hey, come on. Just, you - sleep here tonight."

And Mickey nods because he doesn't know what'll come out of his mouth if he opens it.


	15. Chapter 15

**A huge thank you to Billie (stitchandrepair) who is the best person and, like, someone should buy her a pug for being so great. **

* * *

Jake puts a cup of coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich in front of Mickey and asks if he wants to talk about it.

It's nine the fucking morning; Mickey doesn't even want to be awake let alone talk. Especially about last night. Though he is curious about how Jake knew. So he shakes his head then asks, "How'd you know?".

Jake sits beside him, spoons way too much sugar into his coffee. "You looked at him like how I wanted you to look at me." He huffs a laugh, sounds nervous. "Not anymore, obviously," he rushes to say. "Like, uh, y'know, back when we were together."

Mickey feels kind of bad about that. Though he knows Jake isn't saying it to so that he does, is just being honest with him.

"It was at the party, the underground club thing. I - I dunno, you were pretty wasted and you kept looking at him and smiling and he was doing the same and it just sorta clicked." Jake runs a hand through his hair, drums his fingers against his cup. "So something happened last night?"

Frowning down at his lap, Mickey bites at his lip. He doesn't know what to fucking say. He could be honest, tell Jake everything and he knows Jake would keep quiet. But that means he has to think about it, means he'll have to see Jake pull that face where he's judging but doesn't want it to show and Mickey doesn't want to see that shit.

He shrugs his shoulders, lets Jake think whatever he wants.

Several minutes pass between them in a silence that isn't completely uncomfortable. Mickey eats his sandwich and Jake drinks his coffee, gets a banana from the fruit bowl in the middle of the table and begins eating it.

"Um, I have a class at ten 'til eleven," Jake says.

Mickey hums and eats the last bit of his food, then sips at his own black coffee. He badly needs a smoke.

"Wanna walk with me?" There's a pause. "Or wait here? Like - I don't know if you wanna go home or not but you're welcome to stick around with me. I - I don't mind." Loudly, Jake sighs when Mickey doesn't respond and takes Mickey's plate and cup to the sink.

Mickey watches him, considers his offer of staying here, hiding out for the whole day. He knows that's pathetic. He knows he can't ignore what happened forever; it won't change what they did, no matter how badly he should want it to.

And that's just the thing: he doesn't really want it to. The fact that he had sex with Ian - it's, like, the worst thing he could've done to Mandy, but he doesn't wish he hadn't done it. Which is maybe the worst thing of all, actually. He knows he's in deep, last night fucking confirmed that, and he has no clue what he's supposed to do now because Mickey's never really done this. This - all this feelings shit. He fucks then fucks off. Jake was the exception, kind of, and just look at how that went.

Ian, though. Ian is _the_ exception to this rule that Mickey's always had. He's wormed his way into Mickey's life, under his skin; like some sort of fucking disease that starts out small and then just spreads until your whole body is sick with it.

Ian is like the worst kind of fucking disease because Mickey never wants to get better from it.

...

In the end, he does go home. He showers at Jake's, walks with him a little, and then heads back to the apartment.

Just so happens that Ian's up and dressed and looking looking bright-eyed, bushy-tailed with Dylan sat opposite him at the breakfast counter looking like he's about to fall back asleep.

They both look over at him and Mickey tries his best not to react, instead walks over to the kitchen, gets himself some juice.

"Hook up last night?" Dylan asks from behind him.

For a moment Mickey panics, thinks Dylan is asking if him and Ian did. And then the rational part of his mind tells him that can't be what Dylan's asking; he isn't really stupid, but even if he had noticed something between them, Dylan's brain doesn't fully function before noon.

Mickey lies, says, "No, why?", all the while facing the fridge, not caring that he's drinking straight from the carton. Zoe throws a fit whenever she sees him do it.

"Hickey."

Freezing, the carton of juice still pressed to his lips, Mickey racks his brain for something to say. Because he knows Ian didn't leave a mark on him - was maybe even careful not to - and so whatever Dylan is referring to must be what Jake left behind.

He puts the juice back into the fridge, briefly closes his eyes against the coolness, then closes the door back up again. Dylan looks midly curious when he turns around. Ian, though? Ian looks like he's only seconds away from exploding. Mickey gets it; whatever. Nobody would exactly be happy to know the person they fucked went off to fuck someone else straight after.

It doesn't stop Mickey smirking and saying, "Just met up with an old friend", because he wants to hurt Ian. Needs to push him back a couple hundred steps before they become something they can't be.

Dylan nods, mumbles something before declaring he's going to have a shower, leaving Mickey and Ian alone in the silence.

Ian is staring at him, Mickey can see it from the corner of his eye where he's at the sink, looking out the window as the streets slowly wake up.

"Who was it?"

Mickey grips the edge of the counter. "Doesn't matter."

Scoffing, Ian gets up from his stool, gets right up in Mickey's space beside him. "Really? It's so bad that we had sex you had to fucking run along, whore yourself out? Just to - what, so you could forget? Fucking pretend it didn't happen? Pretend that you don't what it to happen again?"

"You shut the fuck up!" Mickey says, teeth gritted so that he doesn't shout.

Ian shoves at his shoulder, backs Mickey up so that he's almost against the fridge. "You can go around fucking as many guys as you want, let them stake their claim-" he jabs two fingers into Mickey's neck- "as much as you want, but it won't change what happened and it won't change the way you feel!"

Mickey's never seen Ian so mad; his eyes wild and his chest rapidly rising and falling, straining against his striped t-shirt. Mickey doesn't bother biting down on the temptation to rile him up even further. He wants to fight, he wants to argue and get Ian to hate him. It'd be easier if Ian couldn't stand the sight of him.

"You don't know shit about what the fuck I feel." He smiles, so nastily it may as well be a snarl. "Think 'cause I let you fuck me it means that we're like fucking boyfriend and girlfriend?" He snorts, looks Ian up and down, halfheartedly puts up a hand to his chest when he tries to step closer. "Grow the fuck up." Ignoring how fucking broken Ian looks right now, Mickey moves away from him, heads towards his room with heavy footsteps.

"Just don't ignore me like before," Ian says when he's got a foot in his room. He pauses for a tiny moment then carries on walking, slamming the door behind him.

...

Mickey hasn't exactly been ignoring Ian, no matter what Zoe keeps saying to him. At least not how he did before after they kissed. He doesn't discreetly try to leave a room if Ian enters it, he talks back when he's spoken to. Just - he's distancing himself. It's what needs to happen seeing as when he doesn't he ends up doing shit with Ian that weighs down his conscience, makes him feel fucked up from guilt.

But it's kind of a shit situation because he actually misses the guy. Ian has this - and Zoe would probably call it a presence or something - thing that can instantly chill him out. He's a lot better than how he was - his anger isn't too much of an issue and he doesn't constantly feel the need to be looking over his shoulder - but Ian further adds to it, makes Mickey feel totally unpressured.

Now, these last couple days, Mickey's felt kind of wired, tense like he hasn't for a while. It's made worse by the fact that Ian isn't. He's still joking and laughing with the others; is able to ignore the obvious way Zoe looks at the two of them. Mickey wishes he could ignore her. Instead he's getting more and more convinced that she knows.

They still haven't talked about Mandy and Mickey understands they probably need to. But, fuck, he just wants some time to not think about it. Besides, he doesn't plan on getting close with Ian again, so it won't be a problem anymore, will it?

He's never claimed to not be a selfish bastard. And maybe he is a shitty brother, too, just like his dad used to say.

...

"Yeah, okay, alright, but it's still a 50/50 chance either way," Ian says with a laugh as Dylan unsuccessfully tries to persuade him into agreeing that the baby is going to be a boy.

"I dunno, man. I've heard so much of his shit that I kinda think it'll just end up being a boy." Mickey shrugs, downs the rest of his beer and frowns at the stupid face Ian pulls at him. He's only agreeing with Dylan to annoy Ian. He's petty as fuck, he knows that.

Just as Dylan begins to go on another rant (one that Mickey will agree with regardless), Ian says, "Alright, alright; if the baby is a boy I will give you both $20 and if it's a girl, you'll both give me $20. Fair?" He raises his eyebrows, eyes flittering between the two of them. There's a ghost of a sneer on his face, like he knows Mickey doesn't honestly believe Dylan can tell what gender the baby is.

Slamming down his empty glass, Dylan says, "Sold", with a drunken smile. Fucking lightweight; they've only been at Paul's for an hour. "I'mma get the next round, what you guys want?" He asks, standing, scratching one of his thighs.

Both Ian and Mickey asks for beers and Dylan shakes his head at them, mutters out a "heathens" and goes over to the bar, yelling Paul's name.

Ian is chuckling quietly, shaking his head, when Mickey looks back at him. He sort of can't help but stare a little. He never uses words like fucking 'beautiful' or 'gorgeous' or any of that shit to describe guys, but he thinks maybe they might apply to Ian. Fuck's sake, he's not supposed to be thinking shit like this.

A foot connects with his shin and he snaps out of it. "Need me to tell you to take a picture?" Ian asks, lips forming a cocky smirk.

Angrily, Mickey flips him off, scoots his chair over so that there's room for Paul inbetween them.

"Thanks, son," Paul says. He sits, a long, tired-sounding sigh leaving him. Pointing a thumb at Dylan, Paul asks if he's been running his mouth with all these theories to them, too.

"Well, hey," Dylan says, body lurching back like Paul's words slapped him, "they aren't "theories", they're legit reasons to believe it's gonna be a little dude, it's a gut feelin'. Theories," he scoffs, "those are a whole 'nother thing."

Paul rolls his eyes and both Mickey and Ian snicker. "Quit ya yabberin' an' pass me my beer," he says.

Dylan, like a scolded child, hands it over and then sips at his JD and coke through the little red straw.

Paul asked them all over to discuss plans for St. Patrick's Day in a couple days, wanting to do something a little more special for Zoe. She's more than proud of her Irish heritage and Paul says he wants to have a little celebration - "what wi' the baby, an' all" - that's separate so that she doesn't have to deal with all the locals drinking whilst she can't.

"Could always do it at the apartment," Dylan suggests. "So long as you don't have to work, we can invite people, throw around some green shit and, like, baby decorations."

Mickey has nothing against the idea, thinks Zoe would appreciate it, probably keep her in a good mood for a little while longer. Beside him, Ian agrees, says, "Yeah, sure, she'll like it".

...

Dylan manages to get wasted. So much so that he's fucking belting out a mash-up of old N-Sync songs as they make their way into the apartment. Good job Zoe isn't home. Which is actually probably the only reason why Dylan's like this. Fucking idiot.

Mandy pops her head out of her room, eyes scrunched up. When she sees the three of them she rolls her eyes and goes back inside.

"Dyl- Jesus Christ, would you shut up?" Mickey says, as they maneuver into Dylan's room. Dylan starts having giggle fit, hiding his face in Mickey's neck. "How did you even get this drunk, man?"

They manage to get Dylan to his bed without letting him brain himself on his wardrobe or chest of drawers.

This isn't exactly a weird thing for Mickey. He's used to having to drag Dylan home, holding up his huge frame as he drapes himself all over him; he's used to having to take off his shoes and jeans so that he doesn't moan about it in the morning.

But he can actually feel the awkward rolling off of Ian as he stands by the door.

"I got this," Mickey says, pulling of a boot with absolutely no help from Dylan at all.

"Right, sure."

Mickey pauses his movements until he hears Ian walk away. He has to practically wrestle the button of Dylan's black jeans open and when he does, Dylan makes it fucking impossible for him to pull them down.

"Hips up," he says, about to tap Dylan's hip before realising that he does that with the guys he's about to undress so he can fuck them. But Dylan does as he's told and Mickey is able to tug down his jeans, smirking at the fluorescent yellow boxer-briefs Dylan's wearing - one of the pairs that Mandy got him for Christmas.

He throws them over the random desk chair - though there isn't even a desk in the room - and is at the door when Dylan whispers, "Y'know, Zoe thinks you guys are fuckin' or somethin'".

Mickey sniffs, thumbs at his bottom lip. "Go to bed, Dylan," he says before slamming the door closed.

Yeah, he's kind of figured that out by now.

...

There's actual squealing on St. Patrick's/Zoe's Baby Celebration Day, courtesy of the woman herself. Like, yeah sure, Mickey knows that hormones affect women, can make them emotional and shit, but he never thought he'd hear such a high-pitched sound come out of her. It's so weird.

Turns out Dylan invited all of Zoe's friends - the ones she likes - and Paul's in charge of food and drink, so the decorating falls to Mickey and his sister, seeing as they're the only others around.

Dylan has actual bags of random decorations for different holidays, and it takes them close to ten minutes to unravel green fairy lights and clover-shaped fucking lanterns from the mass of tinsel and fuck knows what else.

"He knows he's twenty-four, right?" Mandy asks from where she's kneeling on the kitchen counter, taping some of the fairy lights to the cupboards.

Mickey snorts. "Fuck if I know." He's thankful that she's not close by because he really can't look her in the eye at the moment. Hasn't really been able to since he and Ian hooked up.

She's always been the wildcard of the family. With Mickey and his brothers people were aware of what they were capable of; they had a reputation, what with the drug-dealing, the fights they got into, dropping out of school before the age of seventeen. It's Mandy that always used to shock people with how vicious she can be.

He can't count the amount of times he's had to pull her back from a fight so she didn't fucking kill anyone.

Honestly, he's pretty scared about what she might do when she finds out. Because she's calmed down a lot, but she's always been the most possessive person Mickey's known; even worse than he is.

"Think Zoe'll bite my head off when she finds out I invited a friend?" Mandy's now putting one of the lanterns on the coffee table, back to Mickey.

"Nah." He puts one of the lanterns on the entertainment center. "Who you bringin'?

Facing him, she crosses her arms over her chest, shrugs. "Just a friend... Um, hey, can I talk to you?"

Mickey nods, notices she's wearing a pair of Ian's sweatpants and tries to squash down the jealousy he feels.

"Think Ian's seeing someone?"

And Mickey swears his heart stops beating for too long to be classed as healthy. But _fuck_.

"Uh... what?" He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, how to act. Should he fake anger at the idea of his little sister being cheated on? Mickey doesn't think he can bring himself to do that. Can't fucking lie and pretend like that to her face.

She shuffles about and looks completely unbothered. Like, Mickey has seen his sister pretend to not give a shit about a lot of things (like when her boyfriend in tenth grade broke up with her in front of everyone at party). He can tell when it's not genuine. And sat there, absently swirling her finger in the green face paint Zoe brought over, she doesn't care that Ian might be cheating on her.

Mickey is so fucking weirded out by this whole thing.

"Come over here."

So Mickey does, because he's been feeling unbearably shitty about fucking Ian that he'd kiss the damn ground she walks on if it meant she wouldn't hate him.

Mandy swivels so that she's facing him, one knee resting casually on his thigh. "You can't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you, hear me?"

Mute, fucking shocked silent, Mickey nods.

"I know you and Ian have gotten pretty close but seriously, you especially can't tell him I know this. Right, so - uh, basically Ian and me, we're not really together. Like, I don't know. I know that he's gay for one thing." She laughs and it sounds sort of sad to Mickey's ears and he stares at her as she carries on. "Lip told me, like, a year ago. He was completely wasted, didn't mean to. Made sense, though. It always felt like - I don't know, we were just really close best friends. Lip said that Ian thought maybe he'd fall in love with me if he gave it a go and then when he realised it wouldn't work, he just thought it'd be easier to stay with me. I was mad about that for a while. Then I remembered you coming out to me or whatever and how fucking hard you said it all was and so I suggested to Ian that we have an open relationship." She laughs again, but this time it sounds like real, happy laughter and Mickey swallows hard.

"He agreed and, so yeah. We still lived together, obviously, and we hung out and did couple shit like that, but we didn't really fuck. Definitely don't anymore. I thought the move here would maybe encourage him to come out or somethin'. S'why I pushed him to suck up to his boss, to get the promotion. But..." she trails off, pulls out a loose thread in her black jeans with green fingers. "He's got this - back in Chicago about two months after I said about the open relationship thing, he got this smile on his face sometimes. He was totally in love with some guy - don't know who. I was actually happy for him - so fuckin' weird. But he's got it again and it's like, a million times worse."

Mickey can't - he's gaping right now. Eyes probably bugging out of his head. He tries to reign it in, but fucking Christ, Mandy's known all along?! All this time she's known; she's been trying to help Ian in a roundabout sort of way. Mickey doesn't know if that makes him feel worse or better about this whole fucking mess.

And he isn't even going to go anywhere near the whole love thing. Ian isn't in love with him, for fuck's sake. And if he is, he needs to snap the fuck out of it real quick.

Fuck, he can't wait to get wasted later.

**#**

Mickey thinks maybe he ought to take some of the crap out his bag so the strap of it stops digging into his shoulder. But he's only packed the essentials, a few changes of clothes, stuff so that he doesn't stink like hobo. The rest of what he'll need he can just buy when he gets to New York and finds a place to live.

He was pleasantly surprised to find that his dad had added three grand to his secret stash so Mickey now has $15,000. It's not all his, though. Well, technically it's the Harley's but the moment his dad was stupid enough to steal from them, it kind of marked it as his.

Dumping the bag outside Mandy's room, an empty beer can knocked over by the movement, Mickey pauses with one hand on the door. A part of him doesn't want to do this, doesn't think it's fair to leave her here. Their dad's dead, though, and Iggy is still living here; he's decent, treats Mandy just as well as Mickey does, so he's not exactly worried about her well-being.

They're close, though. Mandy's his favourite person, whether she knows that or not. He'll fucking miss her.

But leaving without saying a word would be worse, so he takes a breath and opens the door.

She's leaning back against her pillows, headphones in and cigarette balanced between her lips. She takes out one of her headphones, raises her eyebrows at him. "Yeah?"

Awkwardly, he walks over to her bed, perches on the edge of it facing her. "Surprised nobody's passed out in here," he comments.

"Had to kick out one of dad's friends and his girl." She grimaces, flicks ash onto the floor. "Don't even think they realised it was your birthday party, just an excuse to get high."

Mickey nods once, not really bothered that she's maybe the only who gives a shit that it was his birthday today. Or yesterday, whatever. Twenty-one doesn't feel any different to twenty, not like he expected it to.

"So," Mandy sits up, "d'you want anything?"

Mickey's practiced what to say to Mandy in this moment a hundred times, thinking over how to word it so that she doesn't end up hating him.

Now all the words have left him and he says, "I'm leavin' tonight". Which was the one thing he'd told himself not to say; bring up the money first, make her happy with that and then let her down. Fucking gently, too.

"Leaving?" She frowns at him, crosses her skinny legs and takes a drag of her cigarette.

Mickey rakes his teeth across his bottom lip, looks at her then at the weird shit on her bedside table. A small, purple weed pipe, a red Sharpie, a little voodoo doll keyring. "Dad was doin' some work for the Harley's before he died and I found the money he stole from them. I'm gonna give you some so you can, like, fuckin' buy a place with Ian or some shit, whatever," he says in a rush, just wanting to get this over with now that he's already fucked up how he wanted it to go. He ignores her shocked look. "I'm gettin' outta here. New York."

She nods and then laughs suddenly, tears in her eyes. "You better get Skype, you assface!" she says, sniffling and kicking at his thigh.

"Not even gonna make a comment about the money?" he asks, his smile widening when Mandy pulls an unimpressed face. He takes the wad of bills out of his back pocket and hands it to her. Five-thousand dollars.

She exhales loudly when he tells her that and he's certain that this is one of the best things he's done. One good thing he's done for her.

He nuzzles her neck as she wraps her arms around him, screwing his eyes closed and breathing her scent that's never changed, not since they were kids.

Mickey has never wanted to tell anyone before in his life. The exact opposite in fact. Who he fucks is his secret and he's kept it that way to the best of his abilty. He won't get another chance to tell Mandy. Over Skype would be too fucking weird and he wouldn't want to ruin a visit or something by bringing it up then. He thinks he can trust her. Fuck, Iggy hasn't told anyone and Mickey was certain he'd kill him if he ever found out.

He waits until she's turned away from him, stubbing out her cigarette in an ash tray. He bites his lip, chews on a piece of dry skin. He can't bring himself to say the actual words. Hasn't even said them to himself, inside his head. So "I fuck guys" is what his idiot fucking mind supplies instead and he knows it's a mistake as soon as Mandy whirls back around, eyebrows screwed up. Mickey rubs a hand down his face and ends up leaving it there. Christ.

To his surprise, Mandy snorts. "What the fuck?"

So he tells her. Not everything, fuck that, and he definitely doesn't answer when she asks if he's fucked anyone she knows (he has). But he explains it the best he can in the most simple of ways before her face starts to fall and she looks pityingly at him.

She doesn't say she understands or that it gets better like all those bullshit campaigns. All she does is nod, light up another cigarette and make him promise to get Skype.

"Yeah, Mandy. I will."

**#**

Mandy introduces him to her friend Marcus, this huge mixed-race guy with a tattoo winding round his forearm. Instantly, he wonders if they're fucking, thinks they probably are if the way he keeps eyeing her is anything to go by. Mickey would tell him to ease up but he's a little too buzzed to put up a good fight if it came to that.

Ian, Mickey notes, is hanging out with a group of people he doesn't recognise. There's a girl eye-fucking him so intensely that it's borderline obscene, and Mickey wants to punch something when he feels the familiar feeling of jealousy stirring around, making his stomach twist and his teeth grind.

All night he's been in a shitty mood, has had Dylan cuff him upside the head about ten fucking times because of it, telling him to lighten up, stop being a party pooper, turn that frown upside down. Dylan can go fuck himself.

So can Zoe with her goddamn _looks_. Jesus, Mickey can't think of a time when he's had someone shoot so many judgmental looks his way. He has to suppress the urge to give her the finger every time he sees her doing it.

Mickey takes the shot Paul hands him, nods when he's asked if he's alright. Probably wasn't wise of him to drink so much. Instead of turning him carefree, the alcohol has simply made him more bitter.

Mandy's words are still whirring around his head. And he wants to march across the room, grab Ian and haul him into his room. But there's something stopping him, something his intoxicated mind can't fully place, a thought in the sober part of his brain. It's like - it's better now he knows that it isn't actually cheating but now he has no reason not to fuck Ian, do all the things he's wanted to do to him.

Yet, it still doesn't sit right with him. Probably because he doesn't just want to fuck about with the guy. He wants to sit around doing mundane things with him like-

He does another shot.

...

Ian tastes like rum and coke and he moans into his mouth, sloppily twists their tongues together. Mickey can't really remember how they've wound up on his bed, but he thinks it's down to the vodka he drank. It perked him up and he remembers Ian coming over to him when people began to leave. He whispered fucking filth in Mickey's ear and he can't recall how subtle they were making their way to his room, but right now he doesn't give a shit.

He's just feeling.

Ian flips them over so that Mickey's on his back, Ian cradled between his legs. They're only in their underwear, clothes scattered across his bedroom floor.

"Come on," Mickey slurs, attempting to tug down Ian's boxers with one hand as he does the same to his own.

Ian giggles, nose crinkling up, batting Mickey's hand away. He nearly falls of the bed in his haste and Mickey has to catch him with a leg to his ribs.

Mickey's skin feels like it's on fire or something. Could be the booze, could be Ian. Either way he just wants Ian in him, wants to get fucked into the mattress. He wants Ian to goddamn _own_ him.

But, to Mickey's helpless amusement, Ian isn't even hard. He playfully slaps at his ass and asks, "Gonna get into this or wha'?".

Ian snorts, starts to jack himself off kneeling between Mickey's legs.

But Mickey cannot, for the life of him, shut the fuck up laughing. It only gets worse when after about thirty seconds Ian's still working his hand on his dick with no result. Mickey lets out a choked off groan Ian slaps his stomach.

"Shu'p, man," he mumbles, face only morphing from a frown to a dopey smile when Mickey pulls him down against him.

Somewhere, way down and right at the back of his mind, Mickey still feels anxious: about the way he strokes a hand up and down Ian's back and how he doesn't push Ian away when he kisses his neck softly and murmurs slurred words into his skin.

In the morning, perhaps he'll freak out. He'll most likely have some sort of panic attack when he takes the time to think about the importance of Ian in his life.

For now, he falls asleep, Ian's weight more comforting than he'd ever thought it would be.

* * *

**Thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, favourited and followed this so far. You're all lovely :)**


	16. Chapter 16

**So sorry for how late this is - faulty computer are bastards! - hope this is at least partially worth the wait.**

**Also, Billie (StitchAndRepair) is the most perfect pumpkin to ever pumpkin and helped me a lot and you should all love her and read her stuff 'cause she's cool and disgustingly talented and stuff. Yep.**

* * *

Bladder feeling like it's about to explode, Mickey slowly opens his eyes, groans at the harsh light of the morning, closes them again. A light throbbing begins to pulse behind his eyelids: the first reminder that he must have gotten fucking wasted last night.

He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed and buries his head in his hands for a brief moment. Psyches himself up to open his eyes again. And when he does he keeps them squinted, stands and puts on the first pair of boxers he finds before beginning to make his way to the bathroom.

The sight of green streamers has him rolling his eyes, as does the random passed out on the couch. Careful not to kick over any of the empty bottles littering the floor, Mickey shuffles along until he gets to the bathroom. Thankfully it's empty.

He sighs as he empties his bladder, at the way his discomfort fades. Well, half of it; the fucking pounding in his head is still there.

In amongst all of Zoe's weird-ass baby shit (that shouldn't even be in the damn medicine cabinet) Mickey finds a pack of painkillers. He pops two in his mouth and swallows them down with a handful of water.

Reflected in the mirror, his face looks pale. More so than usual. Beneath his eyes there's the beginnings of dark circles - evidence of his current stress. Mickey only ever gets that sunken in, tired look around his eyes when he's stressed and anxious. For weeks after their mom died Mandy would order him to sleep, not knowing that he got his eight fucking hours every night.

He rinses his mouth out with mouthwash, too lazy to brush his teeth but eager to get rid of that stale taste on his tongue. He flushes the toilet then leaves, takes another glance at the guy on the couch - still doesn't have a clue who the fuck he is.

He freezes in his doorway. Shit.

Ian is sound asleep in his bed. There are clothes scattered around the floor; their clothes, he realises. He looks down and - yeah, those are Ian's boxers he's wearing. Fucking shit.

Slumping against the wall, Mickey resists the urge to bang his head against it. He can't actually remember having sex, so that's okay. Then again, he can't really remember jack shit about last night, so who the fuck knows what happened?

Still, he had a plan. And sleeping with Ian, whether they fucked or not, wasn't a part of it.

He turns away when he realises he's staring at him whilst he sleeps and sees some guy leaving Mandy's room, buttoning his shirt. Mickey watches him tiptoe over to the couch then curse when he kicks over an empty vodka bottle.

Mickey can remember Mandy introducing him to someone last night, before he got stupidly drunk. The guy she's been fucking - Marcus, maybe? He's pretty sure that it's Marcus.

Once he's left the apartment, Mickey goes over to the kitchen and makes himself some coffee. Because he sure as hell isn't about to go back to bed with Ian, so he may as well wake up properly. He gets a cigarette out of a random pack of Marlboros on the counter, lights up and blows a big cloud of smoke up towards the ceiling, closes his eyes as he warms his hands around his mug.

When he opens them again, Ian is standing in his doorway, topless with his jeans on, still undone. They stare at each other like strangers, like they don't know how to talk to each other or if they even can. Mickey kind of really fucking hates it.

"We didn't," Ian nods his head back, "actually do anything. In case you were worrying."

Mickey was. Still is. Because they were going to. They were getting naked so that they could fuck. The fact that they didn't doesn't change the fact that they had plans to.

"Are you - is this the silent treatment? Or, no actually, you can talk back to me, right? Speak when spoken to?" Ian says, bitterness and sarcasm making his words sound like they taste bad in his mouth.

And Mickey thinks, unhappily, that of course Ian knows what he's been doing these past days; not ignoring him, exactly, but just as bad.

He shrugs. What does Ian want him to say that he hasn't already said? Because he's tired of repeating himself and he feels like that's all he does half the time when talking to him. "Mandy knows," is what he settles on, because this is something Ian doesn't know. Something Mickey has over him.

"Knows what?"

Faking nonchalance, Mickey takes a sip of his coffee. "That you're secretly gay." No sugar-coating, no easing the news onto Ian gently. Mickey wants to surprise him, wants him to fucking worry about it like he's been worrying for weeks.

Ian freezes. Mickey doesn't know how he can tell, it's not like Ian was moving much before, but it's as though he literally cannot move. And then he's swallowing hard, looking down at his bare feet.

"How come?" he asks. "How'd you know that?"

"She told me. Asked if you were seein' anybody, actually." He smiles nastily. "She's known for a while, the reason she suggested the open relationship." He widens his eyes, pretends to realise something. "Oh, thanks for fuckin' tellin' me about that, by the way," he spits, eyebrows raised high.

Ian frowns at him. "I tried to. All those times you interrupted when we got onto the topic of Mandy I was gonna say. And then it just seemed pointless because I knew you were gonna stop the conversation as soon as I brought her up." Ian shakes his head, looks at his feet again. "Don't pin this all on me," he says.

In the rational part of his mind, Mickey can see where he's coming from. Still doesn't make him any less pissed off that he spent so much time feeling like shit about fucking Ian when he was never really Mandy's boyfriend to begin with. Because Ian knew all along, he wasn't under the impression that he was cheating, or that he was being the kind of person he worked hard at not becoming. Mickey was.

He doesn't quite catch what Ian mumbles. "What?"

"I said that I don't get why she didn't just tell me she knew. Why did she pretend?"

"Thought it was helpin' you or some shit," he shrugs, "why not just ask her?"

Make-up smeared around her eyes, Zoe steps out of Dylan's room. Her eyes dart curiously back and forth between he and Ian and they follow Ian as he walks towards the bathroom.

"Did you two sleep together?" she asks casually, coming towards Mickey. She still looks intimidating, even in her pink pyjama bottoms with ice-cream cones on. It's ridiculous.

If there's any point in lying to her, Mickey can't see it. She obviously knows something's going on, probably knows that they've fucked before. So, "No," Mickey says. Doesn't add-on 'not this time'.

Zoe hums, getting herself a glass of water. Mickey puts out his cigarette and waits.

"I'm not going to lecture you or tell you off so stop with the frown and the defensive crossing of the arms," she rolls her eyes, "I'm not your mother. But what I will say is that you should stop lying to yourself about how much Ian matters to you. The sooner you accept it the sooner you stop fearing it." The glass in her hand is this horrible mustard-yellow colour - Mickey remembers Dylan buying it just because he said he hated it. "Mandy'll get it, trust me." She sounds completely sure of herself, like there isn't any room for discussion on the matter; she's right, end of.

Zoe doesn't know his sister like Mickey does. Jesus, nobody does, probably not even Ian. "Right. She'll just fucking "get it", will she?"

Annoyingly, Zoe doesn't get angry, stays all calm when she says, "Yeah, she will. Maybe let Ian tell her, though," she adds on, making her way back to her room, "you're shit at delivering important news." Then the door closes behind her and Mickey's left alone again.

Immediately, his mind begins to supply him with every worst case scenario, all the ways in which Mandy could flip out if Ian tells her. When Mickey was fifteen and angry at everything, he told the boy Mandy liked that she was actually born a guy and just liked to pretend. Y'know - for shits and giggles. Mandy found out two days later and wrote '_touches kids_' in permanent marker on his forehead and told some of their neighbors to watch out for him.

This is a totally different situation, Mickey gets that, but his point still remains: Mandy's bite is about a thousand fucking times worse than her bark and if you do something bad to her, she'll retaliate, do something back to you that is way worse than what you did. Christ, the boy didn't even fucking believe Mickey, anyway! So he thinks he's allowed to be a little on edge. A little fucking nervous.

...

The following day, Mickey and Dylan have the apartment to themselves for most of it: Ian and Mandy have been at work and Zoe's been at her mom's house. Shit feels easy for once. That could be the weed talking, but Mickey feels genuinely relaxed with his legs sprawled wide and his head lolled back on the couch, the leather cool on his neck.

He watches as Dylan takes a hit from the bong, his long hair falling over his face like curtains. He attempts to blow smoke rings and instead nearly chokes to death. Mickey laughs at him, slapping his back in a futile attempt to help.

The thick smoke clears and Dylan begins to breathe properly, lazily shuffling around so that he can rest his head in Mickey's lap, looking up at him with glassy eyes.

It isn't strictly lying if you just don't say anything, right? Mickey hopes not. He hopes Dylan isn't pissed off at him for not saying about Ian - about any of it. He has no doubts that Zoe's told him, now that she has proof. They tell each other most things. Sometimes that worries Mickey. He's told Dylan stuff; secrets that he's not told anyone before. Shit he often wishes he'd kept to himself.

He isn't high enough to fucking reminisce, but Mickey finds himself almost wishing that Ian never got that job, that he didn't win him over, squeeze his way into Mickey's life when Mickey was perfectly happy with the way it was. Only, in comparison, life before Ian seems sort of dull. Better, so much better, than how it was, but like it had been missing something.

Apparently Mickey isn't high enough to reminisce but he is high enough to turn into a huge fucking sap. Great.

Thankfully, Dylan stops him before he starts, like, waxing poetic about Ian's freckles or some shit when he says, "Y'look funny when you're thinkin', babe", giggling into his palm.

Mickey hums, neither in agreement or disagreement.

"My ma - she thinks it's wrong," Dylan says randomly, "That Zoe and me ain't married but we're havin' a baby," he smiles sadly and it turns Mickey's stomach, "says I'm a disappointment. Apparently, my dad agrees. Don't believe her - he doesn't buy into all that tradition shit, he's just scared of her."

Mickey vividly remembers meeting the Johnsons at some party at their massive house. Dylan's dad, Tim, he'd already met, instantly didn't like. The feeling was clearly mututal - the man wasn't subtle, Mickey saw him wipe his hand on his black slacks after shaking his, as though he could get rid of the fag on his skin. Laura, Dylan's mom, was even worse; heavily made-up face pulling an ugly grimace throughout the introductions. She'd probably have looked somewhat attractive without it. It's when he met Dylan's younger brother Nate that Mickey lost it. Because he can only handle hearing some fucking jock make snide comments about dicks and asses for so long before he snaps. The asshole was real lucky that Dylan noticed and ushered him outside - Mickey was seconds away from punching him right in his stupid face. Dylan shoved a shot in Mickey's hand and ranted about how awful his family is; "More money than heart", he'd said.

So this new news, how fucking Laura is shitting all over what Dylan thinks is the best thing that's ever happened to him, only fuels Mickey's hate for her.

A finger prods at his nose and, with a mild air of annoyance, Mickey pushes Dylan's limp hand out of his face.

"Hey, Ian's a real good guy, dude," Dylan says, because, when high, he can't stay on one topic for long. It can get kind of exhausting.

Mickey sniffs, looks at the blank screen of the tv, ignoring Dylan's stare.

"Y'all make a cute couple, 's'all I'm sayin'."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes closed, Mickey says, "Shut up", like he's begging. Fuck, maybe he is, because he doesn't need to hear this.

"Don't do that," Dylan snaps, poking Mickey in the stomach until he begrudgingly looks at him again. "You make him happy, he makes you happy. No need for anythin' else. And Mandy-"

"Jesus, did everybody know about Mandy before me?"

"Nah, no, dude. Zoe told me yesterday after you two spoke. She got it outta her a couple days ago. Girl can do anythin'." Dylan's lips form a dopey smile. "D'you know she ran the marathon when she was eighteen? And she's been to Egypt and-"

Mickey switches off, lets Dylan ramble about how Zoe's done this and that. Is kind of grateful for it; no more talk about Ian. Though Mickey wonders if shit actually is as simple as "you make him happy, he makes you happy". Is that all it takes? Does that just justify things? Because Ian makes him more than just_ happy_.

...

When Zoe gets home with Jake trailing in after her, smiles mile-wide, Mickey's high has worn off. He's stuffing stale Pretzel Crisps in his mouth because he has the munchies and he and Dylan really need to go grocery shopping. Every now and then he has to wipe crumbs off of his work shirt.

Jake smirks at him and Mickey throws a pretzel at his head.

"Uh, so," Jake starts, eloquent as always, "how's things with Ian?" His voice is a hushed whisper and he leans his whole body closer to Mickey's, checks that Zoe and Dylan are still occupied in the living area.

Throwing the empty food packet in the bin, Mickey sighs to himself. Mainly because he doesn't actually know how to answer that question. Ian seemed kind of pissed at him this morning, but not that bad, not like how he was yesterday. And Mickey - he's slowly starting to understand that none of this shit is really Ian's fault; if anyone, he thinks he should blame himself.

"Okay, I guess." He gets a cigarette from the pack in his jeans, flicks his lighter a couple times before it works, sparking one end in an orange glow. Jake declines, shaking his head, when Mickey offers him one. "Don't really know what's goin' on," he admits, eyes locking with Jake's for a second. He averts his gaze, studies the crumbs that have accumulated in the corner by the breadbin. This place is getting grimy as shit.

Jake shuffles even closer until their sides are touching. "Maybe talk to him?" he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Like, I know you're not huge on words and communication, but, uh, well, you need to clear the air." Mickey side-eyes him with a raised brow and Jake frowns at him. "What? You do. I'm not talkin' love declarations, Mickey, just -_ talk to him_."

And it's not like Mickey doesn't know this - he really isn't stupid - it's just that he can't talk about feelings and stuff. Growing up, he was never taught how to speak softly, to spare people's feelings, choose his words carefully; it simply doesn't come naturally to him to say what he's feeling when he can _show_ it. He can use his fists and his mouth and his hands to say everything he can't verbalise. It's never not been enough before. Or if it hadn't, he's never cared before.

He does get it, though. And a part of him - a part he hates - cares. He can't express his emotions like a fucking normal human being and it bothers him.

Jake bumps their hips together and says, "He knows you. Like, really knows you. You won't have to say much", then joins Zoe and Dylan.

Mickey has seriously had enough advice these last few days; it could last him multiple lifetimes, he's sure of it. He mumbles out a "later" as he passes the living area and is nearly knocked out when the front door opens just as he's about to open it.

Mandy looks tired and her hair is disheveled, strands that have come loose from her bun falling across her face. She blinks owlishly at him before schooling her features and looking blank-faced.

She knows, then. Mickey doesn't have to ask, confirm it. He can see it clearly in the assessing way her eyes flitter across his face, the clench of her jaw and the grip she has on her keys.

A hundred different excuses are in Mickey's mouth, - feels like they're fucking choking him - but none of them seem like enough.

Then Mandy says, voice hoarse, "I don't hate you", and despite the hurt in her eyes, Mickey believes her. He doesn't want to, though. He'd sort of like her to scream and yell, demand that he stay away from Ian. Give him an easy way out. But she doesn't. She says, "I don't hate you", and Mickey just believes. And something settles in his stomach: some of that guilt, some of that restraint.

The nod he gives her is jerky, awkward, and she smiles a little at him before moving out of his way.

...

Work passed by easily. It had been a hectic night - no surprise, it's a Saturday - and there were three groups of rowdy women dressed as slutty nurses and cowgirls and ravers celebrating bachelorette parties. They'd kept Mickey on his toes, shamelessly, drunkenly, flirting with him and the other guys working - even one of the brides-to-be - trying to get free shots and cocktails. It'd been good, kept his mind occupied.

Now he's halfway through his front door, having some weird staring contest with Ian and his head is flooding with things to say: '_sorry for being such a fucking dickhead, I thought it was for the best_' and '_you make me fucking crazy but I don't exactly hate it_' and '_I didn't want my sister to hate me and I don't want you to hate me_'.

But Mickey closes the door behind him, dragging his eyes off of Ian, and says, "Hey", his low voice sounding impossibly loud in the silence. He wishes Ian would step out from the shadows so that he could gauge what's going on with him. He wants to know if he's going to get shouted at or if they're going to have a whispered conversation.

As if reading Mickey's mind, Ian takes several steps closer and Mickey is well and truly fucked because Ian's wearing a pair of his sweats and his nondescript, black hoodie and it makes Mickey clench his hands into fists against the urge to just reach out and pull the guy against him.

Arms crossed over his chest, Ian stops only a few feet away from him. The light from the lamp hasn't helped; Mickey still can't tell how Ian's feeling.

"I told Mandy," Ian says, staring hard into Mickey's eyes, like he's daring him to say something back. "About us - whatever we are..."

Mickey thinks there's a question in there, but he isn't about to answer that. "Figured."

Ian's eyebrows climb up his head and he shrugs his shoulders, frowning. "What?" He takes a minute step forward, "You're not gonna bite my head off?"

Though it's only faint, the spite in his voice is enough to have Mickey nervously biting his lip. "Nah, man," he says to the floor, stopping himself there before he says something stupid.

It's a horribly intense moment when Mickey looks up again and can't help staring back at Ian. He wants to tell him goodnight, walk away and into the safety of his bedroom. But that'd be a pussy move and, fuck it, he doesn't have to do that anymore, does he? Ian is his to have.

He can't work out how to ask Ian to just fucking kiss him already without sounding like a needy little bitch, but he thinks it must show in his eyes; Ian's stray to linger on Mickey's lips. They both move together, synchronized in a way Mickey doesn't understand, and Ian's hands feel like they're burning through his skin from where they cradle his face.

Breathing heavy, he pulls Ian to him with the hands he has on his neck and he swears his whole body slumps when their lips meet. It's as though all the fight in him has left and he's fucking putty in Ian's hands. He allows himself to be guided, stepping backwards - the path to his room, he assumes, though he isn't about to pull back and check.

They tumble onto the bed, still attached at the mouth, duvet and blankets by their feet, and Mickey opens his legs, allowing Ian to slot inbetween them. He fits there perfectly.

Ian licks into Mickey's mouth one more time then he pushes himself up on his elbows. Mickey's blinds are still open and every time the faulty streetlamp flickers it sends a dim glow across Ian's face. Mickey can't look away.

"I-" Ian starts, before pausing and furrowing his brows. "Do you want this - me?" he asks in a quiet, vulnerable voice. The quiver in it makes Mickey's heart somehow hurt. Ian's always been this confident guy to him, knowing what he wants and being sure enough of himself to get it.

But right now, here with Mickey, he's looking scared and so young and it makes Mickey want to repeat apologies over and over until Ian's mouth curves at the ends in a smile instead of being in a tense, flat line.

He runs a hand up Ian's side, looks him right in the eye when he says, "Yeah, I do", and just_ has_ to roll his eyes at the smile that spreads across Ian's face, lighting him up.

Ian rolls off him after a few short kisses and begins to undress. "Can I stay in here tonight? Mandy's at Marcus'."

Eyes glued to Ian's back, the movement of the muscles in his shoulders, Mickey says, "Look like you're gettin' pretty fuckin' comfortable regardless", just to be an ass.

Ian throws his t-shirt at his head then wriggles closer. He starts to undo the buttons of Mickey's shirt, one by one, drawing the process out a lot longer than is needed. He's just as slow when removing Mickey's slacks, shoes and socks, dumping all the items at the end of the bed.

Mickey watches on, amused, his hands behind his head, feeling the most relaxed and content he's been for too long. He lets Ian pull up the covers over them and push himself right up against his side, head propped up in his hand.

"What?" Mickey asks, when Ian's staring starts to make him want to squirm.

Absent-mindedly, Ian draws a pattern over Mickey's ribs with one finger. "Nothing." He smiles slightly and drops his head to Mickey's shoulder. "Not allowed to look at you?"

Mickey snorts and cuffs him round the back of his head. He lets his hand rest there, softly scratching Ian's skull. "That was starin'," Mickey mumbles, fatigue setting in.

Ian hums into the skin of Mickey's neck, throws a leg over one of Mickey's and an arm across his waist.

**#**

Mickey swears to himself when he checks the time on his phone; it's fucking four in the morning. If he goes home now someone will be passed out on his bed and his dad will probably still be up, drunk and pissed off looking for a body to slam his fists into. Neither of those very likely possibilities appeal to Mickey.

He takes his time pulling on his jeans and t-shirt.

"Dad home?"

Startled, Mickey whirls round to see Dan leaning casually against the doorframe, cigarette dangling from his lips. Mickey maybe stares at his mouth for a moment too long, if Dan's smug smirk is anything to go by.

"Yeah," Mickey says, pulling on his jacket, not sure why they're even talking about this. Dan is Joey's best friend - something Mickey found fucking hilarious when he and Dan first fucked, which was actually the first time Mickey had sex with a guy - so he knows exactly the kind of man his dad is.

Dan shuffles back into the bedroom of his shitty apartment, flicking ash from his smoke onto the dirty carpet. "Just crash here, man," he says, walking round Mickey. He falls back onto the bed with a loud sigh, leaving Mickey stood in the middle of the room like a fucking dumbass.

He's never stayed the night; their arrangement doesn't include fucking sleepovers. But then that's not exactly what Dan's offering, is it? If anything, Dan is actually less eager to spend unnecessary time together, and he's been around for more than his fair share of Terry's early morning, drunken outbursts, so Mickey spends a moment to consider his offer for exactly what it is: a guarantee of a fight-free night on an actual bed.

Slowly, he unzips his jacket and tosses it to the side along with his jeans. He leaves his t-shirt and boxers on and clambers onto the empty side of the bed, thankful that it's not a single.

He lies there for a long time staring at the damp-stained stealing, counting all the cracks in it. It takes him almost two hours to fall asleep.

**#**

Mickey hasn't ever really seen the appeal in morning sex. Like, he's aware of how much of a grumpy bastard he is when he wakes up, sex being the furthest thing from his mind, and that mixed with morning breath and dumb beadhead - basically, he was never really down for it.

With his legs around Ian's waist and Ian buried deep inside him, slowly rolling his hips? Mickey has to rethink his initial opinion on it.

Ian lets out a low moan, looking down at where they're connected before his eyes find Mickey's again, his rhythm faltering for a moment.

Lazily, Mickey smiles up at him, feeling sleepy and sex-stupid, and groans when Ian wraps a hand around his dick.

The moment is short-lived, though, ruined the moment Dylan barges in without a single knock and actually cheers when he sees the two of them.

Snorting, Ian falls on top of Mickey, pulling the covers over them more and hiding his pink face in Mickey's neck. Mickey hates him.

"Well damn, boys!" Dylan props his arm up on the doorframe, like he's fucking welcome, like he hasn't just walked in on two people fucking. "Fuckin' finally, am I right?"

Mickey glares at him, half out of annoyance and half in confusion as to why Dylan thinks this o-fucking-kay. Jesus. "Would you get the fuck out?" he snaps. Ian shoulders are shaking now and Mickey can feel his smile and fucking Christ, he's surrounded by idiots. He punches Ian in the ribs and shouts at Dylan to leave.

Holding out his hands, Dylan says, "Alright, alright, keep your panties on," he laughs loudly, winking at Mickey, "on second thought..."

"Out!"

Dylan leaves, closing the door behind him, but not completely. Micky is going to kill him.

Ian is still laughing, even when his hips begin to move again, and he comes with a smile on his face that Mickey, reluctantly, commits to memory.

...

Zoe only smiles knowingly when he and Ian emerge from his room an hour later, both wearing clothes that belong to him - the t-shirt Ian has on is a little loose on him and Mickey hates how much he likes it - and he wants to say that it's smug, cocky even, but it looks genuinely happy. He still flips her off.

"Hey," he says to her, sitting at the breakfast counter, "you want Clive's old baby books? He asked me a couple nights ago." His attempt at stealing a slice of her toast is shot down with a hard slap to the back of his hand. "Bitch," he mutters.

Zoe smiles and tilts her head. "Get your own food, I'm eating for two. And no, I don't want Clive's old_ baby books_." She says the words like any other person would say 'dog shit' or something and Mickey frowns at her. "I don't need a book telling me how to raise a child, okay?"

Biting down on a laugh, Mickey looks over at Dylan frying bacon, his back now unnaturally straight. He knows for a fact that Dylan has a load of baby and parenting books on the way thanks to Amazon.

When Dylan says, "Not even, like, a couple?", Mickey has to bite down on his fist to stop his laughter. Smiling, he shakes his head at Ian's confused look.

"Pretty sure cave women were raising their children just fine without the help of a book. If they can do it, I can do it."

"But, like, one or two wouldn't hurt, right?" And now Dylan looks like a kid whose animal crackers have been stolen and Mickey laughs quietly to himself at the sight of him.

Looking heavenward, closing her eyes, Zoe asks Mickey, "How many has be bought?"

"'Bout twenty," he says, smiling when Dylan protests - "bullshit, it's only ten at the most!"

Zoe swivels round on her stool as Ian sits beside Mickey, and Mickey takes the opportunity to steal a piece of her toast. A grimace forms on his face once he realises that what he thought was just chocolate spread is actually Nutella. Doesn't stop him from taking another huge bite out of it, though. He sticks his tongue out, covered in mushed up food, when Ian looks at him with a frown.

"Sexy," Ian comments with a sarcastic little nod before both their attentions get dragged to Dylan and Zoe sucking face like they're about to die if they don't.

"Fuck," Mickey groans, "I'm eatin', can't you take that shit some place else?"

Dylan smiles at him over Zoe's head. "Dude, I saw Ian with his dick up your ass - deal."

"Who was the one who fuckin' stuck around like he wanted a show?"

Before Dylan can reply, Zoe hops off the stool and starts dragging them to their room, complaining about them being too immature for their age.

Mickey smiles smugly, pulling Zoe's abandoned plate closer and ignoring Ian saying he's like a five year old.

...

Mickey is more than a little surprised to find out that being with Ian doesn't really change what it's like between them. Well, at least since this morning nothing's changed. Still, he finds himself utterly relaxed as the two of them watch Family Guy in the early evening, still in the same place they've been on the couch all day.

Zoe's eyes are gradually closing, her head lolling forwards. Usually Mickey would tell Dylan to carry her off to bed, but he's at work and Mickey isn't about to heft her over his shoulder right now, he's too comfortable.

There's something about having Ian right up against his side that grounds Mickey. It makes that nervous energy he still carries settle, stops him from being on edge. It's like he takes all that shit and throws it someplace else and he doesn't even have to do anything in particular for that to happen. Fuck, he's just sitting, drinking a beer and Mickey's overcome with how calm he feels.

It scares the shit out of him, but he's starting to think it isn't the worst feeling in the world. So long as he doesn't have to talk about it.

Ian laughs into his bottle at some lame-ass joke Peter makes that isn't remotely funny and Mickey stares at his profile, despite knowing that Ian knows he's doing it. Fuck it, he's allowed.

At the sound of the door being opened, he snaps his eyes to it and feels his heart begin to race. Mandy looks a little surprised for a brief second, but quickly gives them a tight smile and says hi. Her smile is a lot more genuine when it's aimed at Ian, Mickey notices.

"Wanna watch?" Mickey asks, his shitty attempt at conversation.

Biting her lip, Mandy squints her eyes at him. "Sure," she eventually replies, "just lemme put my shit in my room."

Mickey remains tense up until Mandy comes back in tiny pyjama shorts and a tank top, collapsing onto the beanbag gracelessly. He knows it'll take some time for her to be a hundred percent okay with the idea of he and Ian, and he's in no position to be pissed about that, so he'll wait it out. He can do that.

...

"'Sup bitches?!" is what Dylan yells at ass o'clock in the morning when all of them have fallen asleep where they're sat.

They all curse and moan at him and he doesn't look the least bit apologetic with his wide grin. How is Mickey friends with the guy again?

He picks Zoe up, ignoring her protests and is halfway to their door when he turns around. "Hey, where's Ian gonna sleep now?" he asks, grunting when Zoe punches him in the chest. "What?" He looks down at her, smiling.

It's the first time anyone has brought up the subject of he and Ian in front of Mandy. Actually, it's the first time that anyone's brought up the subject around just the two of them. Trust it to be Dylan who does it.

Mickey digs his nails into his palms and takes a deep breath. He can't just say 'with me', that'd be stupid, but he thinks saying 'with Mandy' would be even worse and so he stays silent, pretends everyone isn't looking expectantly at him like he holds all the world's answers or some shit.

Eventually, when the silence and the staring gets to be too much, he stands up and says, "Wherever", and heads for his room.

He angrily strips out of his clothes, throwing them to the floor and resists punching the wall. The bathroom door is still dented, he shouldn't cause any more destruction.

...

Entranced, though fuck knows why, Mickey watches the smoke from his second cigarette stream out of his nostrils and rise up to the high ceiling. He hasn't exactly been waiting for Ian or anything, he just can't get to sleep. He doesn't expect Ian to come through his door, topless in just his boxers, he doesn't have any fucking expectations because they just end up screwing you over in then end.

But he does bite the inside of his cheek when there's a knock and Ian pokes his head inside the room. He raises his eyebrows in question, just standing there half-naked, and Mickey nods his head back, beckoning him closer.

With Ian's weight half on top of him, Mickey falls asleep easily.


	17. Chapter 17

"Seriously, how the fuck do you win every game?" Ian throws his cards across the desk at Mickey, doing something very close to pouting.

Chuckling, Mickey picks them up and shuffles the whole deck. "Dunno, man, maybe 'cause you suck at it?" The push to his feet, propped up on the desk, comes as a shock, and Mickey almost topples backwards from where he's balancing his chair on two legs. "Hey, fuck you," he says, eyeing Ian's happy little smirk. The fucker.

"If this were Scrabble I'd be wiping the floor with you."

Mickey carries on shuffling. "Oh yeah?" he says, partly distracted, though he does take note of what Ian's saying, remembers all the other times he's gone on about Scrabble, how he used to play it a lot when he was younger and blah-fucking-blah. Maybe Mickey should get it for him - he's already bought a bright red stress ball for him, kind of a shitty birthday present, but it's, like, personal, right? Or whatever. He'll get him Scrabble, too, shut up his complaining and probably earn himself a blowjob. Win-win.

Unable to look away when Ian stretches out in his chair, fucking polo-shirt riding up, Mickey shifts in his seat. He's been pretty damn horny since this morning - Ian had to leave early and so he didn't get even a fucking handjob or anything. It's been four days since they got together and Mickey's gotten used to the casual sex, the way they fuck every night and fool around. Slowly, it's become what he focuses on, helps him not get too stressed out, too anxious about just how much Ian means to him. Sure, he knows there's a lot more to them than just sex, but thinking about that only serves to make Mickey want to run, and so he doesn't do that. It's good, he can work with it.

But he's still horny as shit, and, judging by Ian's smile, it shows.

"That door lock?" Mickey asks, tilting his head back in the direction of it. After Ian nods, he asks, "Wanna play strip poker?".

Ian snorts and scrunches up his whole face. "'Cause I wouldn't end up naked in about two minutes flat?"

As though that isn't exactly why Mickey suggested it. He shrugs. "Ain't that the point?"

"Mickey, I'm not playing a game I'll lose at, even the field."

"Well we don't got Scrabble and you lose at every card game, genius."

Ian lurches forward and snatches the cards right from Mickey's hands, then begins to deal them out.

Watching Ian quietly count to himself, Mickey smiles at him, says, "So what we playin'?", scratching his bare arm.

"Strip snap."

Practically choking on his spit, Mickey loses his balance and his chair falls back onto four legs. "Strip snap? As in-"

"As in it's like normal snap except whoever loses the snap has to take something off," says Ian, dealing out the last two cards. He stands after, tiny smile etched onto his face, and walks over to his door. He locks it and then closes the blinds and Mickey feels stupidly excited, shuffling the cards in his hands.

Ian wheels his chair over to the other side of the desk, beside Mickey. Their knees touch when he sits and Mickey doesn't allow himself to concentrate on the simple touch, the feel of Ian close to him and how it makes his dumbass heart do stupid shit.

Raising his eyebrows, Ian places down the first card - a two of hearts - and then they're off, quickly flipping over their cards at the last-minute, eyes trained on the growing pile. Mickey hasn't played this game since he was like, five or some shit, but-

"Snap!" Ian's big hand slams down and Mickey can't even pretend that it didn't make him jump.

Shoulders slumping, he looks up at Ian's smug face and tilts his head in challenge. He places down all his cards - a fuckload now that Ian won a round - and smirks. He could take off a shoe or his belt but Mickey figures this is fucking strip snap and Ian is looking so god damn pleased with himself, so he may as well go big or go the fuck home.

He peels of his t-shirt and drops it in Ian's lap.

"You-" Ian stutters, eyes on Mickey's chest, "seriously?" Mickey shrugs and Ian slowly sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, draping Mickey's shirt over his shoulder. "Okay then, if that's how you wanna play."

And so, like, Ian's some sort of ninja when it comes to snap. That's the conclusion Mickey's reached when Ian slaps his hand down over two queens and Mickey is only left in his navy boxer-briefs. Ian's not lost a single item of clothing.

"Y'know what?" Ian says, leaning back in his chair, spreading his jean-clad legs wide open, "I think I remember something in the rules saying that the loser - in this case you - has to give the winner - in this case me - a blowjob," he pauses momentarily, squinting his eyes, "Yep, I'm pretty sure I've remembered that right."

Unable to hide his smile, Mickey stands, stepping into the space between Ian's legs. Truth be told, he's been half-hard since they started playing, the thought of one of them or both of them stripping turning him on way too much. He hooks his thumbs into his boxer-briefs and hears the slight hitch in Ian's breathing, sees how his fingers twitch as though he wants to be touching. And suddenly Mickey's thinking back, months ago, when Jake joked about him doing a striptease, how Mickey was adamant that he'd never do anything that even resembles one. He looks up at Ian's face, takes in the sight of him, and runs his thumbs around the waistband of his underwear, widens his legs ever so slightly. Biting his lip, he starts to drag the fabric down his hips, slowly pulling them over his crotch, all the while watching Ian; his heart thumps wildly at the way Ian is staring, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows and it makes him feel fucking treasured.

Once they'e down round his ankles, Mickey steps out of them and gets to his knees, amused to see that Ian's fly is already open. Ian's blatant enthusiasm is understandable: Mickey hasn't gone down on him yet. Not because he hasn't wanted to (Ian is actually the first guy Mickey has wanted to blow) it's just that he hasn't gotten round to doing it yet.

He pulls Ian out of his pants, licks his palm before wrapping it around him. Mickey shouldn't be fucking nervous - he hasn't been nervous about sex since we was, like, eighteen or something - and he _knows_ he gives really good head. But this is Ian and Mickey wants to make him feel good.

Slowly, he swirls his tongue around the head of Ian's dick, sucks on it lightly and shuffles closer on his knees when Ian puts a hand on his neck. The fact that he's buck naked and Ian is mostly clothed is kind of doing it for Mickey and as he takes Ian into his mouth he moves a hand to his own dick, lazily jerks off.

Bobbing his head, Mickey's eyes flutter shut, his mouth adjusting to the feel of Ian inside it. And he wants more; he wants to suck Ian off in the shower and in his bed and in the fucking gym locker room where all this started. Mickey gets so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't even register the fact Ian's moans aren't the only ones he can hear.

Ian clutches at his hair when Mickey takes him in right down to the base, throat flexing. "Shit," Ian sighs, sounding blissed out, "shit, get off."

Mickey pulls back instantly, confused and kind of pissed until Ian says, "God, I wanna fuck you", looking him right in the eye. Mickey eagerly gets to his feet, Ian too, and stands awkwardly as Ian goes through a drawer in his desk.

Walking back towards Mickey, Ian strips off his shirt and has him against the desk in a matter of seconds. He lightly bites Mickey's jaw, trails his tongue across his jawline and then bites at his earlobe. "Turn around," he whispers, voice a low rumble.

Mickey moves instantly, skin brushing against Ian's as he goes, bracing his forearms on the desk.

"No need, man," he says when Ian's slicked up fingers nudge at him.

A deep laugh, one Mickey can feel against his back, leaves Ian's mouth. He fingers Mickey anyway, moves two fingers in and out for a little while, being a huge fucking tease.

He squeezes Mickey's shoulder as he pushes in, gently rubbing at the skin. It's a mix of possessive and affectionate and Mickey loves it, puts his hand on Ian's hip and urges him to hurry up and fuck him because he's been craving this for hours.

"Could you be any hornier right now?" Ian says, laughter in his voice. He bites the skin where Mickey's neck and shoulder meet, then soothes it with a kiss. His hips keeping up a good, hard rhythm turning Mickey into a grunting mess.

Removing his fist from his mouth, Mickey says, "Y'left before I could ride you", smirking when Ian curses and his hips slam into him.

Then there's a knock at the door. Someone - fuck someone is at the door calling Ian's name.

"Fuck, fuckfuckfuck," Ian mutters, hurriedly pulling out, not sounding nearly as amused as Mickey feels right now.

Sure enough, when Mickey turns around Ian's jeans and polo-shirt are both on and righted, fingers doing up the last button on his shirt, even though he never actually wears it like that.

"Mickey, come on," he hisses when the door is knocked again.

Pulling on his jeans, Mickey rolls his eyes, widens them as Ian flaps his hands around, doing some weird-ass sign language that probably means '_hurry the fuck up and stop looking like you were getting fucked_'. Just to clarify, there's a pink flush spreading right down to Ian's neck; his hair, though not as long as Mickey's, is a complete mess, sticking up in all directions. Mickey simply shoves his clothes, feet into his boots and smooths a hand over his own hair. Ian couldn't possibly look like he wasn't just having sex no matter how hard he tries.

The room stinks like sex, too. Regardless of how much Ian takes deep breaths, the room will carry on smelling like sex. The person at the door will know and Mickey thinks Ian should calm down, accept it, and find it as fucking hilarious at it is.

"Just sit down." Ian points to his chair, now back on the other side of the desk, then answers the door. "Keith, hey."

The man, Kieth, with his messy beard and round stomach, squints his eyes at Ian, peers into the room and at Mickey. Smiling dirtily, he says, "Sorry to interrupt, boys", nodding at Mickey who's spinning in Ian's chair. "Just needed to give you these," he hands Ian a folder and pats him on the arm, "didn't know you swung that way," he says, just loud enough for Mickey to hear.

Fuck, Mickey thinks, Ian's panic finally making sense to him. He isn't even out. Shit. Mickey watches Ian smile tightly, notices that his knuckles are white with the grip he's got on the door.

As soon as Keith is gone, Mickey's out of his chair and in front of Ian. "Sorry, man, kinda forgot you're not..." he waves a hand about in a vague gesture.

"It's okay," Ian says, "just gotta get used to it, but it's fine." He smiles again and this one looks real. "I do have to get back to work, though," he holds up the folder, "so I'll see you later?"

Nodding, Mickey leans forward and then realises what he's doing. "Uh-" he just manages to say before Ian's huffing and moving in for a short kiss. "Yeah, see ya," Mickey says, unable to control his smile.

...

The alleyway is dark and secluded, seedy-looking even though it isn't. Mickey leans his back against the brick wall and can almost feel the bass of whatever song is playing inside the club. He's glad that he's managed to sneak out for a smoke break, the thought of serving another person a beer or shots making him want to fucking break something.

Mickey sticks a cigarette in his mouth and lights it, the spark from his lighter momentarily the brightest thing in the darkness. He sucks in, relishing in the familiar feel of the smoke travelling down his throat, and untucks his shirt.

He'd thought he'd lost it. His shirt, that is. He spent half an hour going through his wardrobe and his drawers looking for it, half considering putting his dirty one on. And then Mandy stopped him going through the wash basket and handed him it.

"I think Dylan did the washing again," she said, by way of explanation, "this was in my pile."

Mickey had stared dumbly at the clothing in her hand. Mandy has slowly been growing warmer towards him the past few days. They aren't back to how they were, but it's better.

"Thanks," he'd said, taking it from her and slipping it on.

"Really? Have you seen how fucking creased it is?" Mandy had said, freezing him. She shook her head and held out her hand. "Come on, I'll iron it for you." So Mickey slipped it back off and felt something in his chest lighten, his worries easing some.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he pulls it out.

'_should i be worried that dylan asked me if itd be weird to call his kid a name from harry potter?_'

Mickey huffs a laugh through his nose, smoke trailing out of it. '_depends. like ron or harry or like draco or neville?_' he texts back.

'_he wanted my opinion on severus..._'

Almost choking on his own spit, Mickey barks out a laugh. '_fuck. poor kid._' He taps his cigarette, ash falling to the damp ground.

He lolls his bead back onto the wall when his phone rings; Dylan has changed his ringtone yet again, fucking Smack That by Eminem. Laughter greets him when he answers and he recognises the sound as Ian's straight away.

"Zoe put him in his place and now he's sulking."

Mickey rolls his eyes, props the sole of his foot up on the wall behind him. "It's like he's tryin' to ruin his kid's life before it's even born."

"Mm. Then again, maybe schools in New York are different. A dumb name might not actually result in a beatdown."

Mickey hums thoughtfully, taking a drag. They're quiet for a while and Mickey thinks maybe this is the end of the conversation but he doesn't want to hang up.

"The bet's still on, by the way." Ian sounds tired and Mickey wonders if he's in bed yet. If he's wearing a pair of pyjama pants that belong to Mickey or himself.

"Huh?" he asks, confused.

"Remember? You were still pissy with me, acting like you actually bought what Dylan was saying about the baby being a boy?"

Mickey rubs the bridge of his nose, smoke from his cigarette drifting dangerously close to his eyes. "Fuck," he mutters, cursing himself for being such a douche.

"Ha, yeah," Ian says, sounding smug as fuck. "I still expect my $20 if it turns out to be a girl."

Clive pops his head out the back door, lifting one of his thick eyebrows in a gesture Mickey's learnt to mean he needs to hurry the fuck up. He nods at Clive then says, "Yeah, whatever", to Ian. "See ya later."

"Yeah."

He pockets his phone, dropping his cigarette butt into a nearby, shallow puddle. Following Clive back inside the club, he tucks his shirt back into his slacks.

...

Mickey yawns loudly. For the fifth time in a row.

Zoe walks past him carrying shirts and jeans. "Cheer up, buttercup," she says, fake-cheerful, patting his cheek.

Not even bothering to respond, Mickey absently nods, picking off the ugly green and red shirt on the top of the pile. "Seriously?" He holds it up and she shrugs nonchalant. "He'll never wear this."

"I know, but the thought counts and all that shit." She snatches it from him but puts it back on a random shelf.

They've been at one of Zoe's friend's vintage shops for nearly an hour and Mickey kind of wants to scream or down some vodka. Christ, gouging his eyes out sounds more appealing than this. He's already bought Dylan a new record player and yesterday, after he left Ian's office, he picked up Scrabble, so he's all done on the present front. Now Zoe's rushing about the tiny, cramped shop two days before Dylan's birthday, and four days before his and Ian's joint party, panicking over what to buy.

He looks over at where Ian and Mandy are stood at some jewelry stand, Ian's nose crinkling up when Mandy holds up a huge pair of gold hoops to his ears. Jesus, the fucking bastard is cute. Mickey hates him.

"You are so smitten."

Mickey shoves at Zoe's arm, the cotton of her long-sleeved t-shirt soft under his palm. He isn't smitten, for fuck's sake.

She smiles at him, plays with her nose-ring for a moment. "Hey, so, these ones okay?" She lays out a black, red and grey plaid shirt, a brown and green plaid shirt, a pair of ripped black jeans and a t-shirt with a faded picture of Johnny Cash on it onto one of the tables with old band shirts on.

Mickey can picture Dylan in all of them. "Yeah, cool," he says with a nod.

Grinning, Zoe gathers them all up again and drags him over to the register where Ian and Mandy now are.

"Is Dylan still paying for your family to come up for the party?" Mandy asks, paying for a skirt Mickey wishes she'd put back. Like, why the fuck does she even wear clothes when they're so little?

Ian moves to Mickey's side. "Yeah," he laughs, "it's kind of crazy and Fiona's already refused but I know she won't send everyone else up and not come herself," he shrugs, "whatever, I'm just glad I get to see them."

"Yeah, it'll be good." She takes her bag from the cashier and joins the two of them, making way for Zoe. "Hey, can I bring someone? To the party?"

"Bring someone, huh?" Ian asks, doing this stupid eyebrow thing and smirking. Mickey watches on in confusion. "You mean Marcus?"

"Yes, fine, Marcus, can I bring him?"

"Yeah, sure."

They smile at each other, this private sort of smile that makes Mickey irrationally angry, envy flaring inside his chest. Not once has he ever really felt that jealous about Mandy and Ian "being together", even when he was under the impression they were in a genuine relationship. But now he can see how well they know each other, the easy way they move around together, knowing what the other means without ever having to hear them say it. Because whether they were fucking or not, in love or not, Ian and Mandy were together for nearly three years. And what Mickey has with Ian - whatever he has with Ian - can't really compare to that.

He bites at the skin around his thumbnail and drags his attention back to Zoe. Who is of course staring at him as if she knows exactly what's going through his mind. She probably does.

...

When they're walking back to the apartment Zoe mentions going out for Dylan's birthday, but Mickey's mind isn't really present. There isn't much he can offer Ian, not really. He's under no illusions that his shit's made of gold, and though he's got a bit of money, he knows Ian doesn't really care about that. They're alike in that sense; both growing up with so little, but once they have more, it not meaning as much as they guessed it would.

Fuck, he just - he wants to be more. Of something. Anything. Because Ian won't stick around forever, not for Mickey - he's not having some sort of fucking internal pity party, it's just fact - not when he can barely bring himself to think about what Ian means to him. He doubts he'll ever be able to voice it.

They're back inside the apartment when Ian pulls him into his room by the hem of his t-shirt.

"Wha-"

Whatever he was about to say is muffled by Ian's mouth, soft yet persistent against his own. Mickey instantly kisses back, as if on instinct, and his head clears.

Pinning Mickey to the door, chest-to-chest, Ian sucks lightly on his bottom lip, kisses him over and over with teasing licks that have Mickey craving more.

Ian rests his forehead against Mickey's. "You're a dumbass," he breathes, voice soft and quiet, breath tickling Mickey's cheeks. "You probably think you're subtle, but I can tell when you think I'm gonna leave or something dumb like that."

Resisting the urge to argue back, tell Ian to shut the fuck up, that he doesn't know what he's saying, Mickey slides away. He sits down on his bed with a sigh and starts to untie his laces.

"Okay, alright," he says, as Ian sits behind him and starts peppering the back of his neck with sloppy kisses, "fuck," he squirms to the side, giving Ian an unimpressed look. "Would you stop being such a queer about it?" he grumbles, chucking his boots in the general direction of his wardrobe.

Gracelessly crawling into Mickey's lap, Ian says, "Oh, you want me to stop being queer?", like the smartass he is. His fingers curl into the ends of Mickey's hair as his grin grows wider.

Mickey stares flatly at him, not really pissed off or annoyed, but this is more fun. "Think you're so fuckin' smart..." he mutters, shaking his head.

Smile turning wicked, Ian drops more of his weight onto Mickey's thighs and Mickey rests his hands on his hips. "And you - you look like grumpy cat."

Mickey will forever curse the day Dylan introduced Ian to the internet sensation that is grumpy cat. He immediately glanced at Mickey - who, okay, he was pissed off because he had to work that night when his boss said he didn't, but he didn't look_ that_ pissed off - and made the comparison.

Now he brings it up whenever he's in a dick mood. Like right now, for instance.

"Oh really," Mickey says, lips grazing Ian's neck.

"Yeah, you really reall- fuck!" Ian turns into a giggling idiot - the guy actually_ giggles_ - as Mickey twists them around, pinning Ian to the bed, their legs dangling off the edge. His hips buck up in an attempt to knock Mickey off of him, but Mickey goes limp, all of his weight pressing down on top of Ian.

Letting out a grunt, Ian finally gives up and stops squirming so that they're doing something close to cuddling. Mickey doesn't move to get up, though.

...

For some unknown reason, Dylan is fucking ecstatic about turning twenty-five. Almost weeping when he opens the record player Mickey got him and the records Ian bought to accompany it; the boots from Mandy and the clothes from Zoe. It's a fucking hilarious sight but Mickey's too busy suffering from second-hand embarrassment to really enjoy it. He takes a couple pictures, though.

Despite how obviously tired she is, Zoe insists that they go out and celebrate. Dylan says he doesn't care if they don't, that the party in a couple days is enough, but Zoe is adamant, putting her hand over his mouth and staring him into submission. Dylan looks turned on by it. Mickey doesn't even want to know what they get up to when they fuck.

Ian gets handsy as Mickey changes, hands finding their way to Mickey's hips as he puts on a plain black t-shirt that Zoe deemed nice enough to wear. Her opinion doesn't really mean shit, but she looked murderous when Mickey began to argue back, so here he is.

"Y'know," Mickey drawls, Ian's lips lazily mouthing against the skin behind his ear, "you might wanna get your ass dressed instead of slobbering all over me." He doesn't mention that he'd rather Ian carry on with what he's doing.

"Zoe said I was dressed appropriately," Ian says, amused.

Mickey can feel his smile but he still twists around to see it. And yeah, the guy does look good in his fitted jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt; his pecs look kind of obscene and Mickey has to force his eyes back up to Ian's face.

"I swear to God, if you two are fucking right now I will murder you both!" Zoe shouts, loud enough that their downstairs neighbor - a wealthy elderly man who leers at Mandy and Zoe whenever he sees them - can probably hear.

Somewhat reluctantly, they part and join the others in the living area. Mandy is wearing her new skirt and Mickey eyes it angrily, earning him an elbow to the side from Ian.

Armed with a little bottle of ginger ale, Zoe stands up from the couch and runs her eyes up and down their bodies. "Alright then," she says, as if they were after her approval, "let's go."

...

The second club they wind up in is the kind with those pole things from floor to ceiling that are made out to be part of, like, the building's structure, but are really just there for people to rub all up against. Mickey fucking hates places like this, with the shitty remixes that are even shittier than the usual ones and over-priced drinks and women checking out Ian like it's a-o-fucking-kay to do so.

What's worse is that Mickey can't even do anything to prove to them that Ian's into dick. More specifically, his. Shortly after they arrived, all of them but Dylan and Zoe slightly tipsy, Ian had done this_ thing _with his mouth - not quite a smirk, dirtier than a smile - and Mickey didn't think, just pushed up against his side and pulled his face down so that he could kiss him.

He pulled back when he felt the hand Ian had on his chest push a little. He was confused for about .5 seconds before it hit him. Harder than it had at the gym because they were completely exposed, a shit ton of people able to see them. Their friends, more his than Ian's, who didn't yet know the whole story.

He'd mumbled out an apology, feeling like a dickhead and a little embarrassed, but Ian smiled at him, rolling his eyes.

Since then, Mickey's been keeping his distance a little bit. They're sat together, though, squeezed in around a table amongst their friends. Mickey's leaning back, arm behind Ian who's got an elbow resting on the sticky table, listening intently as Natt, for some reason, decides to drunkenly tell them how she lost her virginity.

Mickey hates the slight pang of jealousy he feels. It's not like he has to have Ian's attention on him all the time, just - Natt is one of those women that Mickey could probably bring himself to fuck if he absolutely had to; she's half Chinese, half American, fucking stunning, if Mickey's honest. She and Zoe make a real pair, it's no surprise that their tattoo shop is so successful. Point being, Ian is staring at her and smiling like she's the most entertaining person he's come across and Mickey's mind can't help but scream '_he wants to fuck her!_' no matter how fucking dumb that is.

He's missed the whole story when it reaches its punchline, the only one not laughing when Natt dares anyone to top her story.

"Dylan can," he says, louder than he meant to.

"Oh shit, yeah, I can!"

And so begins Dylan's story, one Mickey's heard so many times he could recite it himself.

Ian leans back and into Mickey's personal space. His eyes look sort of glazed over and he's maybe more drunk than Mickey initially thought, but he likes how it visibly relaxes him. Ian's fingers play with a loose thread in Mickey's jeans, like how Mandy does with her own. Perhaps it's a habit he picked up from her or vice versa, but either way, Mickey likes it. Likes how Ian's knuckles gently knock against his leg, the touch lacking any sort of intent.

"And, like, I was so fuckin' nervous 'cause I thought my jizz was gonna leak outta the condom-" Mickey snorts at that part of Dylan's story like he always does, "- and so I pulled out and just - I kinda just shoved a couple fingers back into her, as if I could scoop it out or something!" Dylan's laughter takes over and he tries to start his sentence about ten times before he's finally able to say, "And then when I left I had to walk past the livin' room and it turns out her folks got home and her dad just fuckin' stares at me and goes "if you get her pregnant, I'll kill you" and so, like, I didn't fuck her again for about a month 'cause I was so scared."

Ian's laugh is deep and his shoulder shakes against Mickey's chest. God, he's so fucking gone it's ridiculous.

"Obviously I'm a lot better at sex now," Dylan insists loudly over the sounds of a few of their friends questioning why Zoe bothers sleeping with him.

Mickey's close enough to her that he hears Zoe mutter, "Amen", into her orange juice.

He zones out again, trailing his fingers in the condensation on his beer bottle, unaware that his other hand is resting on Ian's neck until Ian turns to him and mumbles his name.

"Mm, yeah?"

Biting his lip, Ian places his hand more firmly on Mickey's leg, just above his knee. And christ, he knows Ian isn't purposely being a cocktease, but he_ is_ being a cocktease. So he kind of has to slowly tilt his head, eyes searching Ian's, giving him a chance to shake his head, say 'no' or something. But he doesn't. He schooches even closer and softly puts his lips to Mickey's, moving them in a tentative way, totally unlike how he usually kisses.

"Don't have to," Mickey mutters, pulling back. He means it, too, he's surprised to find. Though he doesn't really give about shit about making out in clubs, getting head in toilet cubicles, showing those around him that whoever he's with is his - for just the night, longer, whatever - he doesn't need it. Sure, he badly wants to kiss the shit out of Ian right now (staking his claim is what Zoe'd call it) but he doesn't mind that Ian isn't comfortable with that just yet.

It's possible that he's maturing or some shit.

Ian's hand forms a fist and he bumps it against Mickey's thigh once before looking up at him through his eyelashes. For a short moment, Mickey is reminded of a younger Ian, sitting at the counter of the Kash 'n' Grab looking bored out of his mind and sort of stupidly innocent with his bangs.

"Yeah?" Ian says, voice so quiet that Mickey knows what he said more from watching his lips move than hearing the word come out of them.

Mickey nods and says, "You'll wanna hear this", after Zoe claims that her virginity story is the worst.

They've all heard Zoe's story before, bar Ian, and Mickey watches him as he gets absorbed into Zoe's storytelling. The guy she was dating was artsy, wrote poems and shit like that. Was sensitive and in touch with his emotions - she shoots Mickey a significant look when she recalls that part and he flips her off, the bitch - which she initially liked.

Ian is close enough to him that he can hear his quiet chuckling as Zoe says how the guy had about thirty candles lit on his shelves and around the bed - "I shit you not" - and rose petals sprinkled about.

"He didn't have a clue what he was doing," she says, "I had to roll the condom onto him and all but tell him where his cock was supposed to go." She flips her dark hair off her shoulder and anyone who doesn't know her would think it was one of those typical 'I'm better than you moves', but it really isn't. "So anyway, he comes after about a minute? A minute and a half, tops and I didn't really expect much because he was a virgin, y'know? But then - seriously, he starts to ball into my neck, full on, fucking snivelling and snot is getting everywhere." She laughs along with everyone for a minute, then her eyes widen and she says, "Oh my god, no, that isn't even the best part. So I'm laying there, naked and more than a little pissed off 'cause I haven't even had an orgasm. And I got this boy's tears and snot trailing down to my boobs and it's been ten minutes and he is _still crying_ and then he says "know what? I'm gonna write a poem about this" and gets up to find his notebook, sits at his desk and actually starts to write!" Throwing up her hands, she pulls a smug look because yeah, that story is probably the worst Mickey's heard.

"I gotta say," Mickey pipes up, in the mood to be a little shit, "how Dylan almost lost his vir-"

"Oh my god, dude! Shut your damn mouth, no!" Dylan tries to lunge across the table but Mickey's on a roll and Zoe pulls him back anyway with an intrigued look in her eyes.

"-to his cousin," Mickey carries on, as if he never got interrupted, "would probably beat that."

"The fuck?!" Mandy exclaims, eyebrows high on her forehead.

Dylan drops his face into his hands then straightens up again. "She was my _second_ cousin and I didn't fuckin' know! Thought she was a family friend!"

"Yeah, that almost definitely doesn't make it any better," Ian adds, laughing.

As Dylan sulks in his chair the rest of them tease him mercilessly and Mickey doesn't feel bad at all. He smiles wide at him, holds up his beer in a fake toast, rolling his eyes when Dylan says, "Keep goin' and I'll tell everyone how you lost yours", because a) Dylan only knows the story of how he lost it to a girl, and b) that story isn't the one he gives a shit about people knowing.

The one he does give a shit about people knowing - well, no one knows it but Mickey and the guy who fucked him. When he does a quick look around, he can see that a few people are looking at him with interest, probably expecting him to tell them his story, like it's a funny one. It isn't and Mickey hates it and he definitely isn't about to fucking share it. Not with anyone.

He uses the excuse of Mandy starting her virginity story to get up and go to the bathroom, slipping away without a word.

The toilets are nearly empty and Mickey gnaws on his thumbnail, questioning why he didn't go outside so he could have a smoke. Because he needs one right now. Needs something to do, to focus on, to distract his mind from the feeling in the pit of his stomach; this sick, twisting feeling that's working its way into his throat.

**#**

Mickey isn't drunk enough for this. Actually, it might be better that he isn't drunk. Fuck, he - his mind is racing and none of his thoughts are sticking around long enough for him to concentrate on.

Biting his lip, Mickey stifles a groan as Dan's fingers brush against his prostate. A couple of times, Mickey's done this to himself. When nobody's home and he can have some sort of reassurance that his dad isn't going to fucking barge in and see him fucking himself on his fingers, wishing it was something else.

And Mickey has spent a few years trying desperately to convince himself that he enjoys fucking girls, likes their made up faces and the feel of their tits against his chest and the wet warmth of being inside them.

After this, though, there isn't really any going back, is there? After having someone's - a _guy's_ - fucking dick up his ass, there's no more pretending. Mickey won't be able to lie to himself, at least in a way that has him believing it.

Dan - and he's Joey's friend, his best friend, one Mickey has watched beat the shit out of a fag at school - presses his chest against Mickey's back, slowly slides his dick between Mickey's ass cheeks and whispers in his ear, "Fuckin' Mickey Milkovich, who'd have thought it?", with a sharp laugh. The words are harsh, fucking cruel enough to build the urge in Mickey to deck the guy. But he doesn't. Because he doesn't think he's ever been so turned on and though he knows he's going to despise himself later, Mickey wants this; so badly he thinks he might fucking lose it if Dan doesn't get in him soon.

There's the sound of someone shouting out the lyrics to whatever song that's playing. Mickey's stomach turns with nerves and anticipation. His door is locked and has a chair up against it and people have been pissing and throwing up in the garden all night, anyway, but someone could still kick the door down if they wanted to, see Mickey getting it up the ass.

"'Ey, you still here?" Dan says from behind him, something muffling his words.

Turns out he was ripping open a condom if the feel of a latex-covered dick prodding at his ass is anything to go by.

"Yeah," Mickey says, voice hoarse.

"Good." And then Dan is pushing into him. Slowly, thank fuck, 'cause it hurts like a bitch.

Mickey bites into his pillow, shoving his face further into it when he hears Dan swear under his breath and groan.

Once Dan is fully seated, he stills, and Mickey puts a hand to his dick - softened slightly - and works his hand over it, desperate for a distraction from the pain. Then Dan shifts ever so slightly and pleasure shoots up Mickey's spine, taking him by surprise.

"Yeah," Dan murmurs, pulling out and starting up a rhythm.

It hurts and feels amazing and Mickey doesn't know what the fuck to do. Dan's hands are rough on his hips, occasionally one of them wandering down to grab at his ass. And he's into this. Dan is actually into it and Mickey sort of can't fathom that because he doesn't even understand how he can look at a certain guy and get turned on.

Dan comes with a long, drawn out moan of "fuck" and laughs again. "Want a reach around?" he asks, sniffing and pulling out.

Mickey winces and flops his hips down on his bed. He looks at Dan who's stood by his bed, frowning. "Nah, man," Mickey says, unable to say anything else.

Dan shrugs. "Whatever." He starts to dress again and Mickey reaches for his boxers, bites his lip at the pain he feels when he stretches. "Fuckin' Mickey Milkovich, man," Dan repeats, stuffing a cigarette in his mouth, shaking his head and smiling.

Once Dan's out of the room, Mickey allows his panic to take over. He punches his wall so hard he thinks he's broken a finger but he doesn't fucking care. No position he lays in is comfortable and so Mickey stays up half the night and when he does sleep, his dreams are filled with blood and boys and everything he wants but can't yet allow himself to have.

**#**

Finally calm enough, Mickey rejoins the strobe lighting and sweaty bodies, pushing his way to the bar, stumbling over his own feet. He can't remember if he finished his beer, but he's getting a new one regardless.

Mandy's there, getting hit on by some fucking loser in a beanie and a cardigan. It's, like, a million degrees in this place.

Mickey walks up beside him and tells the guy to move the fuck along. It's nice to know that he can still successfully threaten.

Smiling drunkenly at him, Mandy takes a sip of her drink. "Thanks," she says.

Mickey shrugs at her, ordering his beer. "Figure you probably don't want assholes staring at your tits when you have that meathead to do it."

"Marcus isn't a "meathead", you dick. You don't even know him." She's smirking as she speaks, though, not pissed off at Mickey's comment. "Anyway, you're being kinda great with Ian," she says randomly.

Paying for his beer, Mickey side-eyes her. "What?" he barks.

"Ian. You're being all, fuck, understanding? Patient? Something like that," she shrugs again, a weird jerky movement that proves just how drunk she is." Di'nt think you'd be good for him but you are. He's all in love with you and shit."

Mickey's grip on his bottle tightens as he listens to her speak. That feeling he thought he left in the bathroom returns. Mickey downs half of his beer and tells Mandy to shut the fuck up, "Don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about, so just shut up".

He storms off after that, pushing into people as he makes his way to their table, not caring at what they shout at his retreating back. He almost falls into his seat, steadying himself with a hand on the table.

Laughing at him, Zoe says he's a sulky drunk and Mickey glares at her and spends the rest of the night silent.

And when Ian gets handsy with him back at the apartment, drunk and giggly, Mickey tells him that if he doesn't knock it off he'll be sleeping on the couch. Ian grins at him and is asleep within five minutes.

For a while, Mickey just watches him, studies the curve of his lips, the strength in his arms and legs. It'd make sense if Mickey was in love with him - he repeats in his head that he isn't, he isn't, he really fucking isn't - but the other way round? Not so much.

And even if Ian stupidly is, it won't last.

Because every time with Ian feels like that first time with Dan; it has his head swimming and his lungs starved for oxygen and his heart fucking swelling. Only for other reasons. It fucking hurts every time with Ian, but only because of how badly Mickey wants it. Not like he's horny, desperate for just sex. He's desperate for_ Ian_, for everything that he is.

It's too much and not nearly enough and Mickey is going to ruin him, he can feel it. Because he gets weak; Ian makes him so damn breakable and so Mickey will break him instead.

It's sort of inevitable. '_Is that even the right word?' _Mickey thinks, mind buzzing from the alcohol. He carefully gets into bed, wrestling with the sheets, and stares up at his ceiling, wondering if he'll remember any of this in the morning.

...

There's a heavy arm pinning Mickey to the bed when he wakes up: slightly tan, freckled. He trails his fingers down it in a strangely affectionate way, barely even aware he's doing so.

Ian moans, burying his head under the pillow. "I'm fuckin' dyin'."

Rolling his eyes, Mickey says, "Christ, you're such a little bitch", and earns himself a pinched nipple. He stretches out, back clicking, and Ian moans again. Anyone would think the guy emptied out a fucking brewery or some shit.

Mickey doesn't really remember much of the night, but he knows he was on a huge fucking downer by the end of it. Probably the alcohol. Shit, he doesn't know, but he hopes he didn't whine to Ian or anything embarrassing like that.

He removes Ian's arm from him and sits up, watches as Ian steals all the covers and rolls over, back facing him. It's kind of disgusting how happy Mickey is to just look at the idiot Seriously.

He puts on a t-shirt and is at the door when Ian asks if he's making coffee. "Yeah," he answers, "want some?"

Ian hums something that might be 'yes' but could just as easily mean 'no'. Either way Mickey's making him a cup.

He spots Dylan having a smoke on the fire escape - keeping to Zoe's rules even though she's not up. "Lookin' fresh," he deadpans.

Dylan glares at him, waits until Mickey's got a cup of black coffee for himself and joins him before replying. "Dude," he croaks, forehead resting on the brick wall of their apartment, "I think I'm actually dyin'."

Which is sort of stupid seeing as he barely drank anything. Even by Dylan's lightweight standards, he shouldn't be feeling so shitty. Lighting up, Mickey says as much.

Dylan stubs out his cigarette on the wall and Mickey watches it fall to the ground below them until it's nothing but a small speck. "Yeah, but I haven't got wasted in a long time," he says. A slight breeze picks up and Dylan shivers, crosses his arms over his chest and covers his nipples with his hands.

Mickey shakes his head at him. "Bullshit, you got drunk on St. Patty's, man."

"Only a little. Besides, you were too gone and busy mopin' to even notice. What was up with that?" He smiles toothily and steals Mickey's cup. "Ugh, shit," he grimaces, holding it back out and gagging, "Forgot you drink it like that."

"Dunno, man, probably drank too much or some shit. And would you fuckin' stop that?" Mickey says, kicking at Dylan's shin as he continues to fucking dry-heave.

"I got a bad gag reflex, man, fuck you."

"Why'd you sound sad about that? Wanna be able to deepthroat?"

"Only for you, baby."

Mickey quickly flicks his cigarette away, trying to escape Dylan's arms, and almost faceplants his way back inside.

"'Ey, where's your boy?" Dylan asks, leaning his elbows on the breakfast counter.

"Sleepin'."

Mickey gets Ian's coffee - black, two sugars - and puts two slices of bread into the toaster. When they pop back he only puts peanut butter on them.

"Ian knock you up?"

Looking up at Dylan with furrowed brows, Mickey says, "Huh?"

Dylan nods at the toast. "You hate that."

"Not for me."

Practically fucking preening, Dylan walks closer to him. "Well look at you, bein' a good boyfriend and shit."

"Fuck you."

"Nah, dude, for real. You're actually, like, really good to him, he's gonna fall in gay love with you and it'll be like Neil Patrick-Harris and whatever his man's name is. You're a keeper."

Mickey knows he isn't, though, is just waiting for the day he breaks Ian, pushes him a step too far. Because sure, Mickey wants to protect his ass, not get hurt, but he's sure as shit better protecting himself than he is at being a good person. Even now. He'll probably end up doing it on purpose - create a distance before it happens accidentally; he thinks that'd be worse.

And last night gradually comes swimming back to him: the swapping of stories, the reminder of Dan, Mandy's words and how they'd fucked with his head. All of it.

Wordlessly, he leaves balancing his and Ian's cups and the plate of toast.

"Hey," he kicks at Ian's ass, digs his toes into the skin. "Get your lazy ass up, man."

Ian stretches out and finally sits up, nudging the pillows so that he can lean against them and also balance his food on his lap. "Thanks," he says, like an afterthought, mouth full of toast.

The sight of him - hair messy, wrinkles in his face from the pillows, stuffing his face with food - is not in the least bit attractive, but Mickey can't tear his eyes away. This relationship will probably mess Mickey up more than anything else has done when it reaches its ugly end. Fuck knows what he'll do.

For now, though, Mickey forces those thoughts to the back of his mind. For now, he can let himself steal a piece of Ian's toast and run out of the room, yelling, "I'm gonna shower", with Ian's shouts of protests following.

For now, he can just let it go.


	18. Chapter 18

The day of Ian's birthday, Mickey wakes him up with a sloppy blowjob that has Ian grabbing his hair and almost screaming his name as he comes. There are worse ways to spend a morning.

Whilst Ian catches his breath, looking sated and pleased, Mickey gets out his gift, garishly wrapped in green paper with red balloons on. He got Zoe to do it for him and had to suffer through her talking about how sweet it is that Mickey's bought Ian meaningful gifts. Pregnancy has turned her into a sap, Mickey's certain of it. Then again, she's just as much of a bitch, so maybe not.

He kneels beside Ian's leg. "Here," he grunts, shoving the package in Ian's face.

Ian takes it from him with a lazy smile and tugs Mickey back down onto the bed. Settling in beside him, Mickey watches as Ian tears into the wrapping paper like an excited kid. He laughs, taking the stress ball in his hand and squeezing it, then goes all quiet when he sees that Scrabble is beneath it.

Unsure if the silence is a good or bad one, Mickey rubs a thumb across his bottom lip. He fidgets beneath the blanket, eyes flittering between Ian and his own lap, wanting to ask if the gift is just as dumb as he thought.

"Thanks," Ian eventually says. He sounds so fucking sincere that Mickey has to say, "Fuck off, man", or risk doing something ridiculous otherwise. Like hugging the guy, fucking kissing his cheek or some shit.

The worry that was seating itself in the pit of Mickey's stomach yesterday hasn't disappeared completely. He spent the rest of the day doing anything he could to distract himself from it, actually volunteering to join Zoe as she shopped for snacks for the party tonight, letting Mandy complain to him about the bitches she works with. He knows it's stupid: worrying silently to himself about shit that may not even happen for a while. Yet he can't bring it up, not without sounding like some insecure girl and christ, Ian already sees him more vulnerable than anyone else probably has when he doesn't actually mean for him to. There's no way he's going to put himself out there like that.

Ian butts his forehead against Mickey's temple. An odd habit he's developed that never fails to have Mickey biting the inside of his cheek so that his smile doesn't split his face in two.

"What?" he asks, letting Ian nuzzle and kiss his neck. Dude gets so fucking clingy and all, like, touchy after he's come. Mickey will never admit how much he likes it.

Ian kisses his jaw, his cheek and finally his mouth. "Thanks," he says, smirking, his hand trailing up Mickey's bare thigh.

"Already said that."

"Mm, well I'm sayin' it again." He wriggles about until he's under the blankets, mouthing at Mickey's hip.

There's this long, quiet moment that lasts between them. Mickey could fill it with words, he thinks. Spew cocky bullshit, like how it's about time Ian got him off, repaid the favour. But he lies back, the pillows propping him up, and slowly hooks the blanket behind Ian's neck so that he can watch. Watch Ian's lips, kissing and nibbling the skin below his navel; watch him finally get a hand around Mickey, pulling him out of his boxers and engulfing him in the heat of his mouth.

Yeah. Definitely worse ways to spend a morning.

...

Seeing as nobody else is up, they decide to shower together. They take their time, using the excuse of "dude, I'm just washing you" to grope and feel each other up inappropriately.

As Ian scrubs shampoo into his hair, eyes slipping closed and the water cascading down his face, Mickey darts in front of him and turns the water cold. Cackling, he jumps out of the shower and stands in front of the door, dripping water all over the tiles. His laughter turns silent, his shoulders shaking as Ian starts banging on the door, trying to slide it open with his slippery fingers, struggling when Mickey leans more of his weight against it.

"Fuck - Mickey!" He's close to shrieking now, trying to turn the shower off without getting hit by the freezing water spraying at him. He sends one more pleading look Mickey's way - reminds Mickey of that ginger cat in Shrek - and when it doesn't have the intended effect (unless he was aiming to make Mickey laugh even harder), he gives up and gets under the spray to turn off the shower.

Stepping back from the large cubicle, Mickey gets two white towels out for them both. "Here," he says casually, as if he didn't just force Ian into having a cold shower.

"You are such an ass," Ian says, the clear amusement in his voice destroying his attempt at sounding angry.

He snatches the towel from Mickey's hand and Mickey coos, sarcastically, "Aw, poor baby", pouting and getting his hand slapped away when he goes to pat Ian's cheek.

"Better be making me a birthday breakfast," Ian grumbles as they're walking to his bedroom.

Mickey snorts. "Gave you a birthday blowjob, s'all you get."

He only just hears Ian's mutter of, "Fucking Casanova", and smiles, slipping into a pair of jeans, his worries completely forgotten about for now.

...

From Zoe and Dylan Ian gets a couple t-shirts and from Mandy a new CD by some band Mickey's never heard of and will probably hate. Ian has shit taste in music most of the time, Mickey's come to learn.

Ian seems happy enough with it; all wide smiles and happy laughter, blowing out the candle on the small chocolate muffin Dylan presents to him. As Mandy rushes out the door, late for work, she kisses Ian on the cheek and steals some of the icing from the cake in Ian's hand.

"So when's your family gettin' here?" Mickey asks, swiping some of the icing from Ian's cake for himself.

Glaring at him, Ian says, "About five, I think. Should ask Dylan, he's the one who payed for it all".

"'Cause he's got a ragin' hard-on for 'em," Mickey scoffs, and Dylan throws a balled up washcloth at him from the kitchen as he follows Zoe to their room. "You know it's true!" Mickey shouts at him without turning around.

Ian leans back against the arm of the couch, wordlessly planting his feet in Mickey's lap. It should annoy him - when Zoe does it he usually wants to slap her - but all he does is pinch at Ian's bony ankle, his pale skin smooth between Mickey's fingers. Ian tries to take his foot back, but Mickey grips onto it, intent on annoying him.

They end up half-wrestling, half-grinding against each other, Ian pinning Mickey to the couch and getting icing all over his face, fingers dabbing Mickey's cheeks like he's finger painting. Neither of them hear the knock at the door because by the time it comes, they've given up with the fighting and are sort of shamelessly making out like a pair of fucking sixteen year olds.

"The two of you disgust me," comes Zoe's voice as she walks out of her and Dylan's room. "Seriously, you're out here fucking dry-humping whilst somebody's at the door_ whilst_ I'm trying to nap, seeing as I'm fucking _pregnant_," she rants.

Mickey stares at the little red patch of skin on Ian's collarbone that he had been sucking on. He's got ignoring Zoe down to a science.

"Sorry," Ian says with a chuckle, and Mickey looks up in time to see Zoe's face soften. Ian is literally the only person she never gets mad at. Unfair is what it is.

She mutters something as she answers the door and Ian settles back inbetween Mickey's legs. He licks the spots of icing from Mickey's face then hides his own in the crook of Mickey's neck.

"Oh, hey guys."

Mickey turns his head to the side, Ian's hair tickling his cheek. Standing there is Jake, hands in his grey trouser pockets, small smile on his face. "Hey, man," Mickey says. He feels slightly awkward. It's supposed to be awkward, though, right? Your sort-of-ex, seeing you blanketed with your new - whatever Ian is, Mickey doesn't want to label it, fucking, Ian is just. Whatever.

It's awkward; that's Mickey's point.

Running a hand through his messily styled hair, Jake says, "Hi, Ian", the words sounding stilted.

Barely lifting his head, Ian nods at him and it is _so_ fucking passive-aggressive Mickey fights the impulse to laugh.

As soon as Jake is out of earshot, asking all about Zoe's pregnancy in the kitchen, Ian pushes himself up with his elbows either side of Mickey's head. "Why's he here?" he whispers.

"Party," Mickey answers, smirking.

Ian tuts and starts to play with the sleeve of Mickey's t-shirt. "It doesn't start until, like, seven. It's three."

Jealous and possessive is a good look on him, Mickey decides. "Got a problem with him bein' here?" He's mostly teasing, wants to rile Ian up a little.

But Ian doesn't smile or playfully swat at him. His eyes focus on Mickey's chest and he swallows hard. "Y'know that night after we had sex the first time? It was him, right? Who you slept with?"

Mickey grits his teeth together at the memory of that night. The guilt he felt, how needy he was, practically fucking begging for Ian to fuck him. That first time - it shouldn't be tainted by the overwhelming guilt Mickey felt, but it is. And he thinks he could lie, say that yeah, he did fuck Jake, that he loved it. It would push Ian away a bit, slow this thing down because Mickey gets the feeling that maybe they're moving too fast; too much too soon. He can't, though. Hurting Ian, at least in this moment - he can't do it.

"No," he says. "We didn't actually hook up," he continues after Ian quirks a brow at him.

Ian stares, eyes so open and piercing. Mickey wonders if he's ever able to not wear his feelings all over that face of his. "Oh," he says, so quiet that Mickey barely hears him. He looks up over the back of the couch - at Jake, most likely - and then back down at Mickey. "Still don't like him."

Just as Mickey opens his mouth to retort, Ian swoops down and kisses him, sliding his tongue into Mickey's mouth. He drops his chest down to Mickey's and Mickey gets so lost in the feel of him that he rucks up Ian's t-shirt, spreading out his hands on the warm skin of his back.

Ian moans into his mouth, this utterly wrecked sound. He's probably doing it for show, because Jake is here, but it still has Mickey's dick getting interested in the situation, his hips squirming to get some friction. And, stupidly, he thinks Ian's going to give him some, do something to move this forward.

"I'm not giving him a show," Ian mutters against his lips, kissing him one more time before standing in a single, fluid movement. He shoots a smug smile towards the kitchen and then saunters into the bathroom, leaving Mickey horny and annoyed spread out on his back.

...

The way Ian sticks to Mickey's side, hand too casually resting on his arm to truly be casual, makes him think of how Mandy used to get with this ugly-ass ragdoll she owned as a kid. She'd sit it down beside her when she ate and when she watched tv, her hand or her finger always touching a part of it. The thing became the only toy Mickey and his brothers never destroyed.

There's no reason for Ian to feel threatened by Jake. Fact that he is sort of stupid - Mickey stills thinks he's good-looking and shit, but he doesn't want to fuck the guy. It's kind of nice, he supposes, having Ian all jealous over him. Even if it is misplaced.

After an hour of horribly awkward silence as they watch some fucking programme - Jesus, Mickey doesn't even know, he's too busy concentrating on just how fucking awkward it is with Jake sat on the beanbag to his right and Ian on his left - Dylan comes out of his room.

"Ian, Carl just text me, they're here," he says, waving his phone about.

When Ian stands, Mickey follows him - a subconscious move he's unaware of. Dylan leaves to get the car started and Mickey steals some of Zoe's pasta, grinning wide when she scolds him.

"Oh hey," Ian starts, sitting on one of the stools at the breakfast counter, putting on his shoes, "my boss has been going on at me about this party thing he's having, like some couples' night thing, I dunno. Anyway, now he knows about you he asked if, and I quote, me and my lover boy wanna come along," Ian stands and smiles, his eyebrows raised, but Mickey doesn't return it. "So, wanna go? It probably won't be so bad, just the guys from work and their wives and-"

"We're not fuckin' married." Mickey can't explain the anger boiling inside him, the way it seems to start at his toes and is ever so slowly working it's way up his body but he can sure as hell feel it. And now he thinks about Mandy saying that Ian's in love with him, and Dylan saying that he's a keeper and he can't keep it in any longer. That deep-seated fear, that refusal to let himself love and be loved in return turns into blind rage and Mickey's helpless to fight against it any longer. "I'm not going to some fucking couples' night and I sure as shit ain't gonna go just for you and sit around acting like I wanna fucking be there!"

Distantly, behind the blood rushing through his head, Mickey hears Zoe tell Jake to go down to the 7-Eleven and get some more beers. They have about a dozen six-packs in a cooler by the fridge, but Jake flees the room anyway.

Ian scoffs; a truly incredulous noise, like he literally cannot believe what Mickey just said. "Are you being serious right now?" he asks, tilting his head. His shoes sound so loud as he takes a step closer, and it makes Mickey's fists clench that bit harder, his chest rise higher with every deep breath he takes. "That's what you're gonna freak out about? Some lame-ass party that you could just say 'no' to?"

"The fact that you even think that we, like, fucking qualify for a god damn couples' night? Yeah." Moving forward so that he's nearly chest-to-chest with Ian, Mickey sneers. "You need to wake the fuck up."

He sees hurt flash across Ian's features - eyes widening, eyebrows creasing and his mouth turning down at the corners - before he becomes expressionless. And Mickey knows his words have had an effect, the effect he fucking wanted them to, and yet there's this voice in his head fucking screaming at him to take it back, take it the fuck back. He thinks maybe that's why Ian is just staring at him; perhaps he's waiting for Mickey to offer up some piss-poor excuse, tell him to forget about it.

But Mickey doesn't and Ian says, "No,_ you_ do. You think I don't know you? Think I don't see the way you look at me? You're so convinced that somehow I'm gonna break you, or, that, what? I'm just a fuck? A good lay? That's bullshit and you know it. But hey, man, if that's what you really want, why don't you go out and find yourself someone who's willing to bend you over. Y'know, seeing as that's basically what you do best".

Before Mickey can reply, before he can tell Ian that none of that is true that_ he_ is the one who's going to fuck this all up, fuck Ian up, Ian's grabbing his jacket and leaving.

Mickey's eyes stay fixed on the door long after Ian's left. He isn't expecting him to burst right back in again, saying he's sorry and shit. Still, he stares at it, feels his heartbeat pick up but not from anger, not even from fear. He's fucking upset. Sad, even and it's pathetic. A small part of him feels like chasing after Ian like a little bitch. Just follow him to wherever he's meeting his family - that line of thought reminds him that it's Ian's fucking birthday today. Christ.

"Wow."

At the sound of Zoe's completely unwelcome comment, Mickey breathes deeply and faces her. That image of her lecturing him after he fucked that guy when he and Jake first started out comes to mind. The way she drilled a hole in his head and took a look around, sorted out everything he thought but couldn't make sense of. She's going to do it now, he can tell, but he also knows she's going to rip him a new one and he just can't be fucked with it.

"Don't you fucking dare, Mickey!" she yells, vehemently, like a fucking drill sergeant making orders. "Walk into your room and I'll follow you, I'll kick down the door if I have to, but you're gonna listen!"

"To what?!" Mickey shouts at her, spinning around to face her and that hard look on her face. "Your psychology bullshit?" His laugh is ugly - a mean, horrible sound - like the one he'd hear himself let out when Mandy'd piss him off and he was getting ready to hit her with a low-blow. Something to make her cry. "You're so much of a failure that even after you fucking drop outta college, you still gotta act like you know something? That you're smarter than the rest of us?"

Toying with her nose-ring, Zoe looks to the side, her lip trembling. "Hurt me all you want, it won't make you feel better." Seemingly over what Mickey said, she looks back at him. "The same goes for Ian. You don't have the excuse of Mandy to hide behind - to hide your feelings behind - anymore, and you don't like it. Because you've met this guy and you like him, will fall in love with him and you are _so_ fucking scared that you can't bear to be happy with him-"

"You shut the fuck up," he snaps. His teeth are so tightly ground together that he sounds almost incoherent, like his emotions are eating at him from the inside out.

"And it doesn't matter that he makes you feel special, loved, because you actually believe that it's going to get so bad that it isn't worth it, just like y-"

He's in her space faster than his mind can keep up. He glances into her wide eyes. "I told you to shut the fuck up," he says, his hand raised to point at her, barely stopping himself from pushing her.

The way she squints at him, shakes her head and scoffs - it unsettles Mickey. "You need to apologise to him and talk to him, stop hiding from this."

"No, actually I fucking don't!" He scoffs at her, hates that she thinks she can boss him around. What she tells him to do doesn't mean fuck all right now.

"Why are you so afraid?"

Mickey bites down on the words threatening to roll off his tongue, reveal shit that doesn't need to be said. Like how he's pretty fucking certain that he wasn't made for any of this love bullshit, that his parents never found anything in him worth loving and how he felt the same about them. Like how he knows he'll wear Ian down, ruin him like he ruins everything good. Like how he's still fucking scared out of his mind that somehow his family will find out about him and beat him to death.

Mickey keeps his mouth shut but he's convinced that his face is doing all the talking for him.

When he looks, there's nothing pitiful in Zoe's eyes. Maybe sympathy, like she's a little sad for him but doesn't feel sorry for him. She grazes her bottom lip with her teeth. "You know," she says, and it's the softest Mickey has ever heard her voice sound, "I really wish you'd had a chance growing up." And she doesn't open up her arms, offer him some shitty attempt of comfort. She pats his arm and gets out a packet of balloons. "Come on," she says, "help me with this."

...

By the time the Gallagher clan and Dylan come walking through the front door, most of the party guests have already arrived. The vibrations from the bass of the song that booms through the apartment can be felt underfoot. Their neigbour must hate them right now, and Mickey wonders who'll have to offer up apologies because he isn't fucking doing it.

He turns his back to the rest of the apartment, eager to distract himself, drive away that desperate need to look for Ian, to go over to him and shoot the shit. There's an unopened jar of olives on the counter next to the toaster and he pops it open. He slowly empties them into a bowl, keeping his twitching hands busy.

"Dude, come on." Dylan sidles up to him, slinging an arm over his shoulders. "Why'd you have to use my china?" He drags his knuckle over one of the blue patterns on the bowl, like he's stroking a pet or something.

Pouring the last of the olives into the bowl, Mickey rolls his eyes, forces himself to not scream at Dylan to fuck off. "They're olives, man," he sighs, "not like people are gonna fight over them."

Dylan's hand squeezes his neck. "What's goin' on?" he asks in a hushed voice. The music is drowning out their conversation anyway, nobody can hear them.

Faking a smile, Mickey picks up the bowl and gestures for Dylan to move. "Nothin', come on."

Side-stepping to block Mickey's movement, Dylan lowers his head, making it so that he's eye-level with him. His eyes roam over Mickey's entire face and once he's looked his fill he nods and steers Mickey over to the small table they're using for the snacks.

...

It's lucky that Mickey has Clive to hang back with. They sip beers in the kitchen, have easy and comfortable conversation as everyone else dances about, singing along to the songs they know and the ones they don't.

Arm around Debbie's shoulder, listening to Mandy talk, Ian is wearing a smile. Not like any of the ones Mickey's seen before; it looks dead, lifeless, as though someone has painted it on. The more Mickey looks at him, the more irate he becomes. And so he drinks. Beers and shots and vodka and who knows what else.

So by the time Lip swaggers over to him, Mickey is at that level of drunk where he isn't quite loose enough to let go. He feels his shoulders tense just as Lip opens his mouth, before any words even come out of it.

"You're a piece of shit, you know that?" he says, a tight-lipped smile gracing his face. "Wanna know why I asked you to talk to Ian?" He raises his eyebrows and Mickey worries that he's going to smash the glass in his hands he's holding onto it so tightly. "I thought you could help him. Be some sort of fucking gay mentor to him, I don't know. And instead you just mess with his head."

Mickey looks him in the eye and says, "What the fuck do you want?", because he's already had enough of Lip's protective, big brother bullshit for the night.

"Stay the fuck away from him," Lip says before raising his beer in a mock-salute and walking away.

Without giving him time to pause a minute and just think, clear his head, Zoe's friend is coming towards him. The same guy he was about to go home with that night that feels like fucking years ago. The guy Ian got jealous over.

"Hey," he says. And it's Matt, right? Mickey thinks that's his name but he can't be sure and isn't going to ask.

"Hey."

Matt licks his lip, his eyes glinting. "You never did actually take me home," he says, and his hand reaches out, his pointer finger hooking around one of Mickey's belt loops.

It's one hell of a ballsy move, Mickey will give him that. "I didn't," Mickey says back. He twists his head and catches Ian staring over, drink forgotten about.

What Mickey immediately realises when he looks back at Matt is how much closer he's gotten now. The light flecks of hazel in his eyes are visible to Mickey, the minuscule amount of stubble scattered across his upper lip and chin.

Too oddly focused on all the small details he can see, Mickey doesn't notice that Ian has come over to them and is talking, telling Matt to go.

"What the fuck were you doing?" Ian hisses, taking Mickey's bicep in his hand and pulling him to a quieter corner.

Mickey shrugs Ian's hand off of him and lets his weight fall back so he can lean against the wall by Mandy's room. He lolls his head to the side. His eyelids feel heavy but he manages to keep them open long enough to look at Ian. "What I do best, right?"

As though he'd been slapped, Ian jerks back. "Okay," he says, stepping closer and placing a hand by Mickey's head. "I get that you're freaking out right now, I am, too. But you can't just shut me out like this." There's a long pause and Mickey carries on staring at his feet. Perhaps he's supposed to speak now. "Jesus! Would you just - fuck, Mickey, talk to me."

Not even thinking about it, Mickey pushes himself away from the wall and begins to stalk through the apartment. He nudges into people, ignores Dylan and Mandy asking 'what's wrong, where you goin'?'

"Wait!" Mandy jerks him around by the wrist. "Is that all you're gonna do?" she asks, lip turned up in a sneer. She says, "Really? You're a fucking pussy", before letting go of him as though his skin has burnt her and going back into the apartment.

...

He's been walking for a while. That much Mickey knows. He's pretty drunk. That's another fact he's aware of. He doesn't know where he's headed until he looks up and the door to Paul's bar is right fucking there.

Sighing to himself, Mickey quickly lights up a cigarette, thankful he had his pack and lighter in his pocket, then walks in.

He spots a few locals, returns their nods and heads straight for the table that's as close to the back as possible without being near to the toilets. His cigarette burns steadily, the smoke drifting upwards and Mickey balances it on the ashtray and watches, entranced.

And he thinks about Ian. Of course his mind wanders and lands on Ian. It often does these days. He thinks about how if they'd met in the South Side - would they have ended up like this? Together somehow. Would Ian force Mickey to accept himself or would it have happened the other way round? Would it have been better if their teenage selves fell together, became whatever it is they are now?

By the time Paul begins cleaning the nearby table, Mickey's cigarette has been out for close to ten minutes.

"Somethin' on your mind?" Paul asks, spraying the table with cleaner. It smells like citrus. "Ain't seen you so downtrodden since those first two months I knew you."

Mickey shakes his head and runs a hand over his face.

Paul hums loudly. Then he's slapping at Mickey's arms so he lifts them, allowing him to clean his table. "Wanna talk?"

Placing the ash tray back onto the newly cleaned table, Mickey eyes him warily. On the one hand, talking is about the last thing he wants to do. But Paul is nothing if not helpful, and Mickey is both sober and drunk enough to actually talk. He shrugs.

After studying him, Paul sits on the chair across him. "It about a guy?"

Shocked, Mickey's head shoots up. Eyes probably the size of a plate, Mickey stares at Paul and his confusion grows when Paul begins to chuckle. It's croaky and deep thanks to years of smoking.

"Come on now, I ain't an idiot," Paul tuts, draping the rag he used to clean up over his shoulder. "I know you young folk think us old timers ain't got a clue, but some of us do. I see the way you look at that friend o' yours. Ian?"

Mickey stares at him blankly, feels his insides turn cold from fear.

Nodding, Paul says, "An' I see the way he looks back. Honest? I'm a li'l pissed you din't tell me, but I understand. Not only am I old but I'm Southern and wear a cross round my neck."

Snickering, Mickey looks down at the table, his head hanging between his shoulders. "Fuck, man," he exhales, "just didn't want to let you down."

"Lord above, boy," he hears Paul mutter. "You are real stupid sometimes," he says, sounding fond and amused. "This kid, Ian - you like him?"

And that's the big question, isn't it? Mickey scowls up at him but instead of backing down Paul raises his eyebrows defiantly until Mickey gives in and shrugs again. "I dunno," he mumbles, "guess so, yeah."

"And that's scarin' you."

Mickey scoffs. "Fuck off."

"It is and it's understandable. But you ain't back in Chicago, Mickey." That has him listening straight away - Pauls only calls him by his name when he's getting serious. "You gotta let go o' that fear, ain't nobody gonna hurt you or anythin' so long as Dylan and me are around. And Zoe because God help any poor soul that crosses her."

"He-" Fuck. Mickey has no idea what to say, how to even order his thought to make a single coherent sentence.

"He means a lot to you, huh?" Paul asks after a moment. He waggles his fingers when Mickey lights up a smoke and Mickey passes him one. "I'm takin' your silence as a yes. I'd tell you you got nothin' to be worried about or scared of but that's bull. Love is scary and it can drive you crazy but hell if it ain't worth it in the end." Scooting forward, Paul eyes him seriously and doesn't let Mickey look away. "Just 'cause those we love can leave, it doesn't make the times you shared meaningless or not worth the pain." And with that he stands, walks back over to the bar.

**#**

The ambulance in front of Mickey's house doesn't panic him. Police cars and ambulances are often around, sometimes dealing with his own family and the messes they've made.

His name gets shouted and he looks behind him, sees Mandy running towards him. "What?" he asks, sounding tired beyond his years. If he's honest, Mickey just wants to play some Nintendo.

"What's going on?" she asks, dragging her purple backpack across the pavement.

Mickey lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "Dunno, probably dad or something. Maybe Joey's in trouble again." Mickey hopes so. Joey's only been out of juvie for three months and he's already back to being an annoying asshole _all the time_. Mickey didn't miss him when he was away.

Iggy comes rushing up to them, his feet and his torso bare, dressed only in sweatpants. "Here, go buy somethin'," he shoves a wrinkled ten-dollar bill into Mickey's hand.

Taking note of Iggy's wide eyes and the way he can't seem to stay still, Mickey grows curious. "Why?"

"Just - fuck's sake, stop bein' a little shit, take Mandy and go buy some candy or something!"

Mickey doesn't take orders well. From his dad? Yeah, sure. From his brothers? Not at all. So he pushes past Iggy and runs to their house, laughter erupting from him when Iggy stands on a stone and starts hopping about. He shouts at Mickey to come back, to not go in the house, but, with a smile, Mickey walks right in.

His smile crumbles away. Bit by bit as the scene in front of him starts to make sense.

Dressed in dark navy, there are two people crouched down around his mom. She's writhing and shaking on the floor, their hands on her head and legs not doing anything to calm her.

She stops suddenly and begins to choke and someone grabs Mickey by his arm.

"Mick- fuck, man, stop it!" Iggy shouts at him as he tries to drag Mickey outside. But Mickey doesn't want to go outside, he want to see. Because he knows what's going on - he knows that's why Iggy doesn't want him looking - and he knows how this is going to end.

Finally out of Iggy's reach, Mickey sees one of them, the woman with the blonde hair, start trying to revive his mom's body. But Mickey knows already. His mom is dead. She's gone and the needle and the teaspoon on their coffee table are what's done it. No, actually. She's the one who's done it. And Mickey feels hatred flare in his heart, bright and impossible to ignore.

Numbness takes over when his mom is put into a body-bag. And he tries to remember the times she smiled and laughed until she cried. Like at Christmas, when she was so happy and glad to be around them. Mickey tries his hardest to focus on those times as Mandy cries in Iggy's arms but ultimately he can't stop thinking about how this is so much worse than how good those moments were.

**#**

Paul lets him stay an hour after closing time. "To sober up", he'd said, setting up the pool table.

When it's half-three, Mickey decides to leave. He's not really drunk anymore and he's not angry. Plus his apartment shouldn't be as busy as it was when he left. He should be able to weave his way easily through the crowd and make it to his room.

And he does. Keeping his head ducked down, Mickey gets to his room unnoticed. He strips out of his jeans and t-shirt, his tiredness making the movements slow and lazy.

He collapses onto his bed, kicking and tugging his blankets until they're haphazardly draped across his body. He tosses his lighter up and catches it. Over and over again, like he's waiting for something to happen. When that grows tedious, he flicks it on and off before his thumb begins to hurt.

"Yeah?" he says, after there's a knock at the door.

He rolls his head to the side on his pillows and wills his heart to slow the fuck down when he sees Ian looking right back at him.

The loud sounds of music and happiness the open door lets in is silence in Mickey' head. As though every one of his senses is transfixed on Ian and nothing else registers.

Opening his mouth, Ian seems like he's about to say something, but he doesn't. He takes one last look at Mickey and starts to close the door.

"Don't," Mickey starts. He means to say more, only his mouth won't let him.

"Don't what?" Ian says, just sounding tired and like he isn't even expecting an answer anyway.

Swallowing down the anxiety and the desire to run or keep his mouth shut, Mickey says, "Just - just stay, man", in a pleading voice.

And for a moment Mickey's convinced that Ian will laugh at him and turn away, not realising what a big deal it is for Mickey to say such fucking simple words to another person after how many times people have left. But as Ian takes steps closer, locking the door behind him as he does, Mickey knows Ian gets it. Ian's been abandoned and let down just as much as he has. By parents, mostly, but others, too.

Mickey scoots over in the bed, watches intently as Ian undresses and doesn't care if it's creepy that he does so. He doesn't care that Ian clings to him and that his hair tickles from where he's resting his head in the crook of Mickey's neck.

He doesn't care when his eyes start to hurt from being awake so long because he's going to fucking look at Ian as much as he can - he needs to make this worth it.


	19. Chapter 19

**Last chapter, guys!**

* * *

_Epilogue_

The rain loudly patters against the window. Mickey's eyes follow a single drop sliding down the glass before it pools with the others, the streetlamps outside the sole source of light.

A hot splatter of water hits his bare chest and he hisses and turns the tap off, dips his hand in the soapy water and turns on the cold when he decides that scolding his hands isn't fun at all. He can hear Ian calling his name; trying to keep quiet but be loud enough for him to hear. Mickey smiles to himself because the guy is such a fucking douche.

He's washing out a mug, the sides stained brown thanks to Zoe's latest craving for hot chocolate, when he hears the light patting sound of Ian walking towards him. Turning his head slightly to the side, he watches Ian for a moment. He's still topless in a pair of Mickey's boxers and his hair is ruffled from where Mickey was tugging and pulling on it a matter of minutes ago; his hand rubs at his eyes and Mickey turns back to his washing up so that Ian doesn't catch his smile.

"You're so weird," Ian mutters, hands dropping to Mickey's waist, his mouth kissing a mark he'd made when they were fucking.

Mickey places the mug on the draining board. "Why's that?" he asks, putting the plates all of them ate from tonight into the sink.

"How you need," Ian pauses to yawn and wraps his arms around Mickey's waist, butting his forehead against the nape of Mickey's neck over and over, "to wash the dishes before you go to bed."

Mickey still isn't used to this. The casual way they touch, yeah, but not how Ian sort of clings to him for at least a half hour after he's come. It makes him feel like he's needed, not just wanted. It's fucking heady and weird and it'll take more than their six months together to get used to, but maybe he doesn't want to get used to it.

Fuck. Ian is turning him into such a faggot.

He eventually tunes back into the present and lightly elbows Ian in the ribs. "The fuck would I leave the dishes knowing that they'll still be here tomorrow mornin' 'cause nobody but me does them?" Mickey has lost track of how many times he's had this discussion with Ian - one time it actually turned into an argument, but neither of them bring that up - and it always ends the same way.

"Yeah, but leavin' the bed practically as you're comin-"

"I don't fuckin' do that."

Ian snorts. "Sure you don't." He rests his chin on Mickey's shoulder. "Guess I just don't know why it pisses you off so much."

Like Mickey hasn't explained his logic a million times before. "Because," Mickey begins, "I'm, as you call me, a lazy fucker in the mornin's so I don't wanna get up and do the dishes. And like I said, nobody but me does them." He puts the now clean plates onto the rack. "Fuck knows why Dylan bought a dishwasher - never even seen him use the thing."

Apparently done with the conversation, Ian starts kissing and biting at the skin behind Mickey's ear, one hand slowly trailing down Mickey's side. His fingers brush through the fine, blonde hairs below Mickey's naval and he moves closer so that Mickey can feel the warmth of Ian's chest against his back.

As Ian's fingers tease at the waistband of Mickey's sweats, Mickey has to suppress a shiver. How he can feel completely undone with such simple touches sometimes frightens him. Makes his heart beat like it's battling against his ribcage trying to break free.

He twists so that he can put his lips to Ian's, kiss away the taste of toothpaste until it's just a mix of the two of them. Hand dipping into Mickey's sweats, Ian teases Mickey's lip with his tongue and Mickey can feel himself growing harder in his pants.

"Swear to God." Dylan's words startle the gentle silence the two of them had fallen into.

Ian makes a noise of surprise detaching his mouth from Mickey's and resting his forehead on Mickey's shoulder.

"If either of y'all get jizz on my china, I'mma cut you," Dylan warns, though his threat lacks any real heat .

Exaggerating his movements, Mickey carefully shows Dylan the china bowl he washed then places it on the dish rack. When Dylan nods and smiles Mickey flips him off and turns back to his dish washing.

Eventually Ian releases him and goes to sit with Dylan on the couch. As if it isn't already two in the morning. They're all practically fucking nocturnal.

"Shit!"

At the sound of Zoe's shout Mickey spins around, his soapy hands dripping everywhere. Panicked, he watches Dylan trip over his feet to get to the bathroom door.

"Babe, hey, what's goin' on?" he asks, worry making his voice comically high.

The door opens slowly and Zoe walks out and Mickey doesn't know the look that's etched onto her face; his legs move towards her without him knowing, but he's starting to fucking freak out.

"So my water just broke and I nee-"

"Fuck, fuckin' shit, really? Okay, okay, well just stay calm," Dylan rants. His eyes are wide and his mouth gaping. His hands fly up to frame her face before dropping, hovering near the baby bump and then back up to her arms before Zoe grabs hold of them. "Gotta stay calm, baby, just - deep breaths, rememb-"

Zoe slaps at his chest and shouts, "I am fucking calm!", silencing him in an instant.

Mickey is still just sort of lingering there, completely unsure about what to do and when he looks, Ian doesn't seem to be any better. A few times Zoe's told them how it's all going to work out, each person assigned a different job. But all of that has been replaced with panic and excitement and Mickey feels like he's buzzing from the adrenaline pumping through him.

Taking a deep breath, Zoe faces Ian. "I need you and Mickey to stop looking so fucking debauched, get dressed, one of you call Mandy and then go down to the car." When neither of them immediately move, she barks, "Now!", and sets them all in motion.

Geared up, Mickey moves on autopilot. The restless, alert feeling he's got right now reminds him of how he used to feel before he went to threaten some guy for Mandy or a junkie who hadn't paid up. But he was used to doing that; the fighting and the intimidating is still basically second nature to Mickey. This horrible, sick feeling he's getting, almost irrational anxiety that something is going to go horribly wrong with Zoe and the baby - none of it is familiar and he fucking hates it.

Just as he's about to leave the bedroom, Ian catches his wrist and tugs him back. "You okay?" he asks, frowning.

Mickey nods and scoffs, says, "'Course", before they both leave.

...

Coupled with the bright lights overhead, the clinical smell of the hospital is giving Mickey a real bastard of a headache. Aren't hospitals supposed to make people feel better? Mickey's felt nothing but tense for the three hours he's been in the waiting area, his ass going numb thanks to the plastic chair he's sat on. He didn't think to bring anything to entertain himself and playing Angry Birds on Ian's phone proved to only be fun for about ten minutes and then he had to stop before he threw the thing to the ground.

Now all he can do is glare daggers at Zoe's sister, Zara, as she talks with Ian. She's been fucking crushing on him since they first met at the party Zoe's mom, Andrea, threw for Zoe and Dylan. She's all seventeen and preppy and pretty and Mickey wants to punch her in the face. Ian thinks he's being paranoid or some shit whenever he brings it up, but that's bull. The girl used to hardly ever come round their apartment but now that she's aware of Ian's existence she invites herself over nearly every day after school lets out.

And the little fucker knows exactly what she's doing. Keeps sending these '_ha, yeah, look at me talking up your boyfriend_' smirks Mickey's way and Jesus fucking Christ, can Ian just get back over here before he loses his shit?

His phone vibrating in his pocket momentarily puts a stop to his thoughts. He stretches out his leg so that he can wedge his fingers inside and pull it free. Trust the first pair of jeans he found to be Ian's - both a little too long and a little too tight on him.

'_ur jealousy is fuckin dumb_' is what the message says and without looking at her, Mickey flips Mandy off in response. He isn't actually jealous - Ian doesn't want to fuck the girl or anything - but he's allowed to not like someone.

Ian finally moves back to the seat beside him and Mickey ignores how his shoulders deflate, the tension leaking out of them like the air in a popped balloon. Probably trying to get his attention, Ian knocks his knee against Mickey's, but Mickey just knocks his back and keeps his chin against his chest.

"Stop brooding," Ian says quietly, tugging on Mickey's hood that's half hiding his face.

Mickey tries to dodge Ian's hands as they pull on his hood with more determination. "Fuck off," he grunts, trying to sound gruff even though he can feel laughter bubbling up in his throat when Ian gets him in a loose headlock. Mickey playfully bites Ian's nipple through his shirt, eliciting a muffled yelp, and gets dragged even closer against Ian's chest.

"Y'know," Ian starts, giving up with the headlock and simply draping his arm over Mickey's shoulders, "you're probably all pissy 'cause you're tired."

He isn't fucking pissy, Zara is just a bitch, but he can't deny the fact that he's tired. Shuffling about, Mickey ends up with his legs sprawled wide and his back slouched. When he wakes he'll have one hell of a stiff neck, but for now he's comfortable.

...

The moment Mickey cracks open his eyes, he groans and closes them again. He can't tell what time it is now, but it's somehow become impossibly brighter in the waiting area. Rolling his shoulders back makes pain twinge in his neck and he really wishes he'd just gone and got some coffee because he's still fucking tired and the pain isn't worth it.

"Time?" he croaks, sitting up properly and stretching his arms up above his head. Seeing Ian eye the slither of skin that's revealed is hugely gratifying and if Mickey were any pettier, he'd point it out to Zara and laugh. But he isn't so he doesn't.

"Uh, just coming up to seven," Ian says. To put it plainly, Mickey thinks he looks likes shit. His eyes are starting to get that sunken in look and he looks sort of pasty. And Mickey'd crack a joke about it but he knows that Ian won't be in the mood for it and he's too worn out to argue.

Across from them, Mandy and Marcus are sharing a pack of Red Vines. Mickey holds out his hand expectantly then kicks Mandy's ankle when all she does is roll her eyes at him.

Holding out the packet, Marcus smirks at him. "Here," he says. Ever since Mandy started seeing him more regularly, he's slowly been trying to win Mickey over. It's only mildly pathetic. Mickey thinks he's alright: he's good to Mandy and when he comes over he brings his X-box with him. He's yet to get a fist to the face and Mickey's, for lack of a better word, happy that Mandy's found someone decent.

He takes five Red Vines and only gives Ian one because if he wanted some he should've fucking taken some himself.

Another hour slowly ticks by. He and Ian have both grown too tired to come up with anything to talk about and it feels like the silence is trying to swallow Mickey whole.

He understands that giving birth takes time, but fuck, they've been here for so long. Without anything to keep his mind occupied, Mickey begins to worry again. The nurses and doctors and shit would say if something went wrong, right? Mickey reasons with himself because Zoe's mom is out here and surely they'd have to tell her if her daughter and grandkid were about to die.

His thumbnail is almost too short to chew on thanks to how much Mickey's been gnawing on it. And his leg is shaking up-down, up-down as if it has a mind of its own. Fuck. Mickey'd pace if there weren't so many people about.

A hand clamps down on his leg and Mickey jumps before realising that it's Ian. He looks over at him but Ian is tapping away at his phone.

"Why the fuck is this taking so long?" he asks to nobody in particular.

Running a hand through her now shoulder-length hair, Mandy gives him an unimpressed look. "She's pushing out a person through her fucking vagina, Mickey, not getting a smear test."

Was that actually supposed to calm him down? Because all it does is remind Mickey of that night a few weeks back when Dylan was freaking out and Googling all the problems that can occur when a woman gives birth, and-

Before Mickey can figure out what's even going on, Ian grabs his hand, pulling him up off his seat. Their sneakers make loud squeaking noises as Ian directs them to the hospital shop.

Mickey gives Ian a quizzical look.

"What?" Ian widens his eyes innocently. "Your stress was stressing _me_ out, it was annoying."

"Fuck you," Mickey says, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pockets. He wanders over to the candy aisle, his eyes sweeping over the familiar names without really taking note of them. Waiting for someone to have a baby is fucking exhausting.

Ian creeps up behind him and kisses his temple. Mickey would complain about it but the shop is empty and he just can't be fucked. "Get some M&M's," Ian says, pointing to the packets.

Settling back against Ian - only a little, the guy is fucking comfortable - Mickey snorts. "Why'd I spend money on shit I don't even like?"

"Don't be an asshole, man, I forgot my wallet," Ian actually whines, the little bitch. "And it doesn't even make sense that you don't like them," Ian maneuvers around him and picks up two packs, "you like chocolate, peanut butter and candy, which is what they are."

Mickey rolls his eyes to himself then checks Ian out as he walks over to the magazine stand. He gets himself a Hershey's bar and then drags his feet over to the coffee machines. Holding one of the cups in the air, Mickey looks over at Ian and loudly says, "Hey!", and waves it about. Ian nods and so he fills up two of them with the dark, runny sludge that passes as coffee in this place.

"What are you doin'?" he asks Ian who is now fiddling about with the assortment of balloons beside the coffee stand.

"We should buy a couple for Zoe."

"She'll hate that."

Ian smiles impishly. "Exactly." He takes the strings of two gender-neutral balloons and then fucking _pouts_. And Mickey can say 'no' to a lot of shit, but when Ian turns those fucking puppy eyes on him his protests crumble.

"Fuck off with your fucking face, man," Mickey mutters, heading towards the half-asleep cashier whose bleached blonde hair makes Mickey's eyes hurt. Following behind, Ian slaps down his M&M's and says, "These, too", nodding at the balloons. Mickey hates him and pays for it all.

He puts his Hershey's bar in his pocket and tells Ian to take the coffees. Opening the M&M's, Mickey takes out a green one. "Hey, catch." He aims for Ian's mouth, but it's a little too high so Ian has to take a couple of steps back to catch it between his teeth.

The smile he shoots at Mickey is wide, almost childlike in its sincerity and Mickey can't help but smile back.

Walking backwards, Mickey continues to throw M&M's at Ian to catch. He shamelessly watches him as he does so; the way he struggles to not spill any of the coffee then gives up and takes a gulp of each one; how he cheekily winks when he catches the M&M Mickey aimed at his chest; how his face brightens as he grins, his infectious laughter seeming to travel down the hallways of the hospital.

Head resting on Marcus' lap, Mandy is asleep when they eventually reach the waiting area again. Mickey doesn't slap her forehead to wake her up, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to.

Feeling light, almost fucking carefree, Mickey collapses onto the uncomfortable chair he was sat on before and ties the balloons to it. He can't ignore the fact that he's only feeling like this thanks to Ian. He somehow takes all of the thoughts whirling around in Mickey's head, everything that keeps him teetering precariously on edge, and replaces them with reminders of what's good in his life.

Like when, on Mickey's mom's birthday, Mickey couldn't sleep and sat out on the fire escape in the summer night. He was on his fifth cigarette when Ian stole it from between his lips and dropped Scrabble onto his lap. They played until six in the morning and Ian asked him all about how he and Dylan met, how they came to live together.

And now Mickey is chatting about dumbass shit and he knows his grin must look fucking ridiculous but he can't find it in himself to stop.

**#**

Mickey is reluctant to wake up. He knows Ian is awake because he's running his fingers up and down Mickey's arm. They're going to fucking talk. About feelings and shit and whilst Mickey knows he's has them for Ian he doesn't want to talk about it. Plus, how the fuck are you supposed to? What do you say?

"Mickey," Ian whispers.

For half a second, Mickey considers just pretending that he's still asleep, but that's a dick move. And then he thinks about saying he needs to go to the bathroom and scurrying away. That'd also be a dick move, though. Fuck.

"Yeah," he says back, keeping his eyes trained on the stretch of pillow in front of him.

Huffing a sigh through his nose, Ian drops his forehead to the nape of Mickey's neck. "Fuck. Okay, I'm just gonna say this so we can get it out of the way, alright? I like you and I - fuck, I like being with you."

It's the first time Mickey's heard someone say that to him. He can't even recall a time Jake said it, but most of the memories featuring Jake have been replaced by Ian. Like a slap to the face, the sudden realisation of just how important Ian is to him hits Mickey. And he wants to tell him, convince him to stick around but no words come to mind, so instead he just says, "Yeah, me too".

Ian snorts and Mickey rolls over onto his back. "What?"

""Me too"? Seriously?" His face breaks out into a smile and Mickey's so close that he could probably count the light freckles scattered across Ian's cheeks.

Mickey punches his shoulder. "Fuck you." He sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, muttering, "Don't even fuckin' know why I like you", as he puts on a pair of sweats.

Except he knows exactly why he does and Ian's look says he does, too.

**#**

Mickey gets another half hour of sleep before he gives up. He and Mandy start pointing out people and making up stories about them like they used to do when they were out and high together.

He's softly chuckling as Mandy explains how one of the nurses - "no, the one with the nasty-ass haircut" - imagines that her boyfriend is Edward Cullen when they fuck when Dylan bursts out of the delivery room and screams, "We have ourselves a baby girl!".

Everyone jumps to their feet, congratulating words and joyful laughter making the room brighter than any of the lights do.

Dylan wraps his long arms around Mickey, pressing his wet face into Mickey's hair. "I'm a fucking dad," he says, amazed.

Mickey pulls back and slaps Dylan's arm. "Yeah, you are, man."

Choking out a laugh that sounds more like a sob, Dylan gets enveloped by Ian's arms and then it turns into some weird group-hugging moment. Mickey even puts his arm around Zara - if that doesn't say something about how fucking happy he is right now, nothing will.

"Can we see her?" Andrea asks.

"Dude, fuck, yeah, come on, guys!" Dylan says, herding them all towards the room Zoe's in.

"Hey." Ian stops dead in front of him and twists around.

"What?" Mickey asks, the ghost of a smile still present on his face. Half-tempted to take a quick picture of Ian - Mickey won't admit how good he looks at the moment, not even to himself - Mickey quirks an eyebrow when Ian holds out a hand.

"You owe me $20," he says before laughing and stepping closer.

And Mickey doesn't care that Ian's being a little shit doing that cocky eyebrow thing. He can already here everyone - everyone that matters - cooing at the baby and talking happily amongst themselves and, fuck, he's maybe staring at Ian but he doesn't think he's ever cared less in his life.

Besides, he's already pulling out his wallet. $20 dollars doesn't seem like much of a price to pay.

* * *

**Thank you _so_ much to everyone who's read and reviewed and followed and favourited this fic. It really means a lot!**

**Andandand, because I'm too emotionally invested in this 'verse, I'll be posting random one-shots for it. Yep.**


End file.
